He folded the table and chair, rolled the rug, and shouldering them picked up the bucket and started down the river bank.
“David!”
Such a faint little call he never would have been sure he heard anything if Belshazzar had not stopped suddenly. The hair on the back of his neck arose and he turned with a growl in his throat. The Harvester dropped his load with a crash and ran in leaping bounds, but the dog was before him. Half way to the house, Ruth Jameson swayed in the grip of her uncle. One hand clutched his coat front in a spasmodic grasp, and with the other she covered her face.
The roar the Harvester sent up stayed the big, lifted fist, and the dog leaped for a throat hold, and compelled the man to defend himself. The Harvester never knew how he covered the space until he stood between them, and saw the Girl draw back and snatch together the front of her dress.
“He took it from me!” she panted. “Make him, oh make him give back my money!”
Then for a few seconds things happened too rapidly to record. Once the Harvester tossed a torn envelope exposing money to the Girl, and again a revolver, and then both men panting and dishevelled were on their feet.
“Count your money, Ruth?” said the Harvester in a voice of deadly quiet.
“It is all here,” said she.
“Her money?” cried Henry Jameson. “My money! She has been stealing the price of my cattle from my pockets. I thought I was short several times lately.”
“You are lying,” said the Harvester deliberately. “It is her money. I just paid it to her. You were trying to take it from her, not the other way.”