Roughly, almost brutally, Rance shoved her to one side and entered.
“No more Jack Rance. It’s the Sheriff coming after Mr. Johnson,” he said, emphasizing each word.
The Girl eyed him defiantly.
“Yes, I said Mr. Johnson,” reiterated the Sheriff, cocking the gun that he held in his hand. “I saw him coming in here.”
“It’s more ’n I did,” returned the Girl, evenly, and bolted the door. “Do you think I’d want to shield a man who tried to rob me?” she asked, facing him.
Ignoring the question, Rance removed the glove of his weaponless hand and strode to the curtains that enclosed the Girl’s bed and parted them. When he turned back he was met by a scornful look and the words:
“So, you doubt me, do you? Well, go on—search the place. But this ends your acquaintance with The Polka. Don’t you ever speak to me again. We’re through.”
Suddenly there came a smothered groan from the man in the loft; Rance wheeled round quickly and brought up his gun, demanding:
“What’s that? What’s that?”
Leaning against the bureau the Girl laughed outright and declared that the Sheriff was becoming as nervous as an old woman. Her ridicule was not without its effect, and, presently, Rance uncocked his gun and replaced it in its holster. Advancing now to the table where the Girl was standing, he took off his cap and shook it before laying it down; then, pointing to the door, his eyes never leaving the Girl’s face, he went on accusingly: