"Ye can't get no help," said Sandy. "Ye might's well give up!... God, ye're all the sweeter fer havin' to fight like I been doin'!"
By a motion, extraordinarily quick for so big a man, he clutched her bodily, and dragged her to him. She lowered her face against his chest and buried it under her curls.
"I air goin' to kiss ye, my pretty wench," muttered Letts. "Gimme yer lips, gimme—"
In the scuffle neither heard the step on the porch and neither saw the tall form loom in the doorway. Sandy wrenched at the red hair, drawing Tessibel's face upward. Then Deforrest Young grappled with him, and in the one blow he landed under the squatter's chin, the angry lawyer concentrated the vim of years of exasperated waiting. Sandy slumped to the floor. Kneeling beside him, Young's leg pressed against something round and hard in Letts' pocket.
A quick investigation brought forth a small revolver.
"Are you hurt, child?" he inquired, getting up. "Did he hurt you?"
"Not a bit, Uncle Forrie, but he scared me awful."
The prostrate man groaned, moved his limbs and sat up, slowly. He glanced around as though trying to figure out what'd happened. The sight of Young, holding the gun Waldstricker's money bought, told Sandy the whole story of his downfall.
"Get up, Letts, and get out of here quick!" Young ordered, prodding him with his foot.
Sandy scrambled to his feet unsteadily.