“I don’t ’laow any man’s goin’ to, neither.” Daniel reloaded his smoking revolver, bolstered it with a flip; faced me in turning away. “That’s somethin’ for yu to l’arn on, ag’in next time, young feller,” he vouchsafed.
If he would have eyed me down he did not succeed. His gaze shifted and he passed on, swaggering.
“Come along, Edna,” he bade. “We’ll be goin’ back.”
A devil—or was it he himself?—twitted me, incited me, and in a moment, with a gush of assertion, there I was, saying to her, my hat doffed:
“I’ll walk over with you.”
“Do,” she responded readily. “We’re to have more singing.”
The men stared, they nudged one another, grinned. Daniel whirled.
“I ’laow yu ain’t been invited, Mister.”
“If Mrs. Montoyo consents, that’s enough,” I informed, striving to keep steady. “I’m not walking 214 with you, sir; I am walking with her. The only ground you control is just in front of your own wagon.”
“Yu’ve been told once thar ain’t no ‘Mrs. Montoyo,’” he snarled. “And whilst yu’re l’arnin’ to shoot yu’d better be l’arnin’ manners. Yu comin’ with me, Edna?”