Mason turned and saw Bud and Scotty grinning at him. In the same instant, Bud’s hand flashed from his hip, followed by a sharp report.
He heard a cry of pain behind him, and bewildered, he turned again to see the halfbreed nursing a pair of bleeding knuckles.
Bud and Scotty strode toward them with burning wrath in their eyes.
“The dirty skunk,” Scotty was saying, as he kicked a gun out of the halfbreed’s reach. “He tried to bore you. Never turn your back on a greaser.”
“He’s drunk,” cut in Bud, “but that don’t excuse him. Get up, you whelp, and make tracks out of here, you’ll lose your job for this.”
Bud took his gun and the halfbreed slunk away with muttered threats. Mason looked at the girl. She had recovered from her fright and was regarding him with large dark eyes filled with gratitude, and suspiciously close to the point of tears.
He saw at a glance that she was a Spanish girl of unusual beauty. Taking off his hat he made her a bow and in return he was rewarded with a dainty curtesy.
Turning to Bud he shook his hand warmly and said,
“Thanks, old man, you saved my life.”
“That’s all right, Jack,” the big fellow returned heartily. “You have to watch them greasers. Come, Scotty, let’s play a game of cards. Coming in soon?” he questioned of Mason.