“Let me be, Pete Mullendore!” She tried to pull loose.
“When you’ve give me a kiss.” There was a flame in the muddy eyes.
With a twist she freed herself and cried with fury vibrating in her voice, “I hate you—I hate you! You—” she sought for a sufficiently opprobrious word—“nigger!”
Mullendore’s face took on a peculiar ashiness. Then with an oath and a choking snarl of rage he jumped for her. Kate’s long braid just escaped his finger tips.
“Mother! Mother! Make him quit!” There was terror in the shrill cry as the girl ran towards the freight wagon. The response to the appeal came in a hard voice:
“You needn’t expect me to take up your fights. You finish what you start.”
Kate gave her mother a despairing look and ran towards the pack ponies, with Mullendore now close at her heels. Spurred by fear, she dodged in and out, doubling and redoubling, endeavoring to keep a pony between herself and her pursuer. Once or twice a fold of her skirt slipped through his grasp, but she was young and fleet of foot, and after the game of hare and hounds had kept up for a few minutes her pursuer’s breath was coming short and labored. Finally, he stopped:
“You little——!” He panted the epithet. “I’ll get you yet!”
She glared at him across a pony’s neck and ran out her tongue. Then, defiantly:
“I ain’t scart of you!”