“I deny its jurisdiction,” Macdonald returned, drawing himself up, a flash of defiance in his clear eyes.
Chadron jerked his head in expression of lofty disdain.
“Go on! Git out of my sight!” he ordered.
“The road is open to you,” Macdonald replied.
“I’m not goin’ to turn my back on you till you’re out of sight!”
Chadron bent his great owlish brows in a scowl, laid his hand on his revolver and whirled his horse in the direction that Macdonald was facing.
Macdonald did not answer. He turned from Chadron, something in his act of going that told the cattleman he was above so mean suspicion on his part. Nola shifted her horse to let him pass, her elbows tight at her sides, scorn in her lively eyes.
Again Macdonald’s hand went to his hat in respectful salute, and again he saw that flash of anger spread in the young woman’s cheeks. Her fury blazed in her eyes as she looked at him a moment, and a dull color mounted in his own face as he beheld her foolish and unjustified pride.
Macdonald would have passed her then, but she spurred her horse upon him with sudden-breaking temper, forcing him to spring back quickly to the 100 roadside to escape being trampled. Before he could collect himself in his astonishment, she struck him a whistling blow with her long-thonged quirt across the face.
“You dog!” she said, her clenched little white teeth showing in her parted lips.