“Fight?”
“Yes, fight.”
“Fight like—like you and Mr. Delaney that time with—oh, dear—with guns?”
“I don't know,” grumbled Annixter vaguely. “What do YOU think?”
Hilma's low-pitched, almost husky voice trembled a little as she replied, “Fighting—with guns—that's so terrible. Oh, those revolvers in the barn! I can hear them yet. Every shot seemed like the explosion of tons of powder.”
“Shall we clear out, then? Shall we let Delaney have possession, and S. Behrman, and all that lot? Shall we give in to them?”
“Never, never,” she exclaimed, her great eyes flashing.
“YOU wouldn't like to be turned out of your home, would you, Miss Hilma, because Quien Sabe is your home isn't it? You've lived here ever since you were as big as a minute. You wouldn't like to have S. Behrman and the rest of 'em turn you out?”
“N-no,” she murmured. “No, I shouldn't like that. There's mamma and——”
“Well, do you think for one second I'm going to let 'em?” cried Annixter, his teeth tightening on his cigar. “You stay right where you are. I'll take care of you, right enough. Look here,” he demanded abruptly, “you've no use for that roaring lush, Delaney, have you?” “I think he is a wicked man,” she declared. “I know the Railroad has pretended to sell him part of the ranch, and he lets Mr. S. Behrman and Mr. Ruggles just use him.”