He was one of the men she had seen working, a slouching young fellow—a white man.
"Home," she said, in a roughened voice.
She endeavored to brush past on the lower side of the pathway; the sheer cut of the hill obstructed the upper.
He put out a friendly hand, catching her arm in rude assertiveness. "Not so fast. You're the Cole gal, ain't you?"
"I'm Diana Cole. I'm going home."
Her tone trailed off weakly, as he stepped closer. She could see his face now, uncertain eyes squinting directly at her.
"Hey, good-looker," he dropped to an ingratiating whisper, with a leer to increase the effectiveness of his words. "What you say—wanter show me a bit of good time? What you say?"
She tried to shake herself free. "Let me go! Don't dare touch me——"
"Don't say dare," Jim Hewin said warmly, his left hand sliding appraisingly up the bared softness of her right arm. "Plump, eh? Nice piece of dark meat. I like you; I'll treat you right."
A gust of sudden fright, the blind fright of the female when her well-ordered maiden state is first threatened, shook over her; her arm lashed out impotently.