“He’s the sort of a man who polkas with you first and then cuts your throat,” was his next stab.
The Girl turned upon him with eyes flashing and retorted:
“Well, it’s my throat, ain’t it?”
“Well I’ll be!—” The Sheriff’s sentence was left unfinished, for Nick, quickly pulling him to one side, whispered:
“Say, Rance, the Girl’s cut up because she vouched for ’im. Don’t rub it in.”
Notwithstanding, Rance, to the Girl’s query of “How did this Nina Micheltoreña know it?” took a keen delight in telling her:
“She’s his girl.”
“His girl?” repeated the Girl, mechanically.
“Yes. She gave us his picture,” went on Rance; and taking the photograph out of his pocket, he added maliciously, “with love written on the back of it.”
A glance at the photograph, which she fairly snatched out of his hands, convinced the Girl of the truthfulness of his assertion. With a movement of pain she threw it upon the floor, crying out bitterly: