Aunt Gladys giggled and hitched the baby up from its sagging position. “There ain’t nobody but Peter can do nothing with Nevada,” she informed him. “Her gran’paw, maybe—but he don’t pay no attention half the time. You better stay home, Nevada. Queo might shoot you.”
“How perfectly idiotic! Do you suppose he would refrain from shooting Mr. King, but kill me instead?”
“Well, you can’t tell what he might do,” Aunt Gladys observed sagely. “He’s crazy in the head.”
Rawley laid his fingers on Nevada’s hand, where she held Pickles by the bridle. He looked straight into her eyes, bright with anger. His own eyes pleaded with her.
“Miss Macalister, please don’t be obstinate. To let you go back up that trail is unthinkable. I am going, and some one must be with my partner. I can make the trip well under two hours; there is heavy stuff in that ditch which needs a man’s shoulder under it, getting it back into the trail. Please stay with Johnny Buffalo, won’t you?”
Nevada hesitated, staring back into his eyes. Her hand slid reluctantly from the bridle. Her lip curled at one corner, though her cheeks flushed contradictorily.
“Masculine superiority asserts itself,” she drawled. “Since I can’t prevent your going, I think, after all, I shall prefer to stay at home. A pleasant trip to you, Mr. King!”
“Thanks for those kind words,” Rawley cried, his voice as mocking as hers. “Come on, Pickles, old son!”
A boy of ten, with his face clean to the point of his jaws, came running from the shack with a rifle sagging his right shoulder. Rawley waited until he came up, then took the rifle, spun the boy half around and gave him a gentle push.
“Thanks, sonny. Ladies and children not allowed on this trip, however. You stay and protect the women and babies, son. Got to leave a man in camp, you know. Wounded to look after.”