"Don't tell them so," Garnett cautioned her; "let them do the talkin'."
At sound of their steps Rob turned to them. "See here, Harry. These fellows say you've shot one of their cows and run in her calf. They say they've had positive information from a fellow who saw you shoot."
Harry turned white. For a second there was no sound except the creaking of a saddle as the ponies breathed. The two vaqueros, one a half-breed Indian, the other the pink-faced man whom Harry had met on the range, stared at her fixedly. Garnett apparently kept his eyes fixed on space, but he missed nothing.
Fear had not blanched Harry's cheeks. Anger had, and the next instant they flushed scarlet. "Who saw me shooting?" she cried. "I haven't had a gun in my hands this summer except to warn poachers off our land."
"Poachers?" the pink-faced rider echoed inquiringly.
"Yes; hunters who come inside our fence to steal sage hen and grouse. They won't stop merely for being asked. You have to fire a rifle over their heads to frighten them. Then they understand that 'no-shooting' signs mean what they say."
Her voice trembled a little, but she held her head defiantly and faced the "cow-puncher" with steady eyes. He merely shook his head and smiled incredulously.
"You shore are brave, ma'am. Tother day you was doggin' off Ludlum's stock like you owned the hull range, and you told me you'd shoot every one of 'em now—that is, if it suited ye; and now you're gunnin' for white men becus they're pickin' up a few birds what ain't yours nohow. I guess you wouldn't find no trouble pluggin' a cow critter if you thought you could rustle her calf."
"Is that so, Harry?" Rob asked quietly. "Did you threaten to shoot Ludlum's stock?"