Before he had time to fire a single cartridge, however, something happened. The stranger leaped forward like a spring suddenly released. His right hand shot out and struck the revolver from the miner’s fingers, and his left, knotted into a solid ball of bone and sinew, flashed straight from the shoulder, collided firmly, but quite ungently, with that individual’s unimposing physiognomy, and hurled him sprawling into the dust.
For an instant the miner lay where he had fallen; then, with a roar of rage, he started to scramble to his feet. He found himself, however, looking past the businesslike bore of his own weapon into two very cool but earnest gray eyes. Discretion hinted that it would be best to retain a sitting posture for the time being.
“Keep your hands away from your guns, boys,” the stranger was remarking. “It would be embarrassing to have to shoot such new acquaintances! As for you, you emaciated rum-hound, dancing is an excellent recreation, as you say, but unfortunately I enjoy it only when I do it to amuse myself. Now, listen—I’m not in the habit of repeating! My intentions in this place are perfectly peaceful; and I didn’t come here to start trouble. But if you feel any inclination to begin it. I’ll hold up my end. I’m pretty generous with it, when I get going. It would be best for your health, therefore, not to waste more of your valuable lead or time on me. Try to remember that, friend, and I have no doubt we’ll get along splendidly.”
For a moment he continued to gaze steadily into the furious, blood-shot eyes of the miner. Then he smiled, picked up his box with his free hand, and moved away in the direction of the house with the broken window. Fifty feet from the group, he tossed the pistol into the road. It lay there half-buried in the dust.
The crowd of miners milled around uneasily and murmured under their breaths. It was an unwritten law that no man interfere in the little misunderstandings and arguments of any other man. One of them walked out into the road, secured the discarded weapon, and silently handed it back to its owner. It was evident that the tall man was one of these creatures who frequently attained a doubtful leadership in the early days of the West through sheer brutality and terrorism, and the ability to kill too quickly to be killed themselves. As he scrambled to his feet, his small, darting eyes caught the question and doubt in the faces of the men around him. He burst into a volley of profanity, raised the weapon, and pointed it at the disappearing figure.
Before he could fire it, however, there was an interruption. A big roan horse had darted suddenly from nowhere, flashed before the group, and reared up on its haunches before him. Now a riding-crop swung through the air and descended on his wrist. For the second time that afternoon, the revolver was sent spinning from his fingers.
Mad with pain and fury, he reached for the weapon. But the rider forced the horse against him and jostled him back. He looked up into the snapping blue eyes of a remarkably handsome and remarkably pale girl. She was dressed in a riding costume almost mannish in its Western simplicity, and a very serviceable revolver was suspended at her side from a well-stocked cartridge-belt.
“You coward!” she blazed. “Would you kill a man with his back turned!”
He was silent a moment, trying to meet the fiery gaze.
“Don’t reckon I owe you no account o’ my doin’s,” he answered with a curious mixture of deference and sullenness. “You better be on your way. I don’t fight with women!”