“What you know about that?” he demanded sharply.
“Allen told Crumb the first time he came to the Hollywood bungalow that he was having trouble among his gang, that you were a hard lot to handle, and that already one named Bartolo had killed one named Gracial. How would you like me to tell that to the grand jury?”
“You never tell that to no one!” growled the Mexican. “You know too damn much for your health!”
He had stepped suddenly forward and seized her wrist. She struck at him and at the same time put the spurs to Baldy—in her fear and excitement more severely than she had intended. The high-spirited animal, unused to such treatment, leaped forward past the Mexican, who, clinging to the girl’s wrist, dragged her from the saddle. Baldy turned, and feeling himself free, ran for the trail that led toward home.
“You know too damn much!” repeated Bartolo. “You better off up here alongside Gracial!”
The girl had risen to her feet and stood facing him. There was no fear in her eyes. She was very beautiful, and her beauty was not lost upon the Mexican.
“You mean that you would kill me to keep me from telling the truth about you?” she asked.
“Why not? Should I die instead? If you had kept your mouth shut, you would have been all right; but now”—he shrugged suggestively—“you better off up here beside Gracial.”
“They’ll get you and hang you for it,” she said.
“Who will know?”