“Love somebody else, I suppose,” he sneered, baring his teeth in a fatal attempt at an ugly smile.
“If I do, it is none of your business,” she replied, her eyes beginning to blaze.
“That dude sheepman, I allow. He’s a gilt-edged vanderpoop, he is! But I’d hate to be in his boots, if you want to know it.”
“Look here, Mike Stelton,” and Juliet drew her horse abruptly to a stop, “either you say nothing more on this subject or I shall tell my father what you have done this afternoon when we reach home.”
Instantly the man saw he had gone too far, and, with a quickness born of hatred, immediately changed his front.
“I was only thinkin’ of protectin’ you,” he muttered, “and I’m sorry I was ornery about things. That feller Larkin is a bad lot, that’s all. He wouldn’t be out here if he wasn’t.” 90
Perhaps it was that Juliet had given a greater place to Larkin in her thoughts than she realized; perhaps his eloquent defense of wool-growing had not been sufficient explanation for his unheralded appearance on the range. Whatever the reason, the girl rose to the bait like a trout when the ice has left the rivers.
“What do you mean by that?” she demanded.
“You remember that feller Caldwell that rode in late to supper the night Larkin come?”
“Yes.”