“I’ll brain the one that lifts a finger!” he howled. “What did I tell you about this? Who is running this crew? Whose money is paying you? Get back, you hounds!”
Once more, though he gasped in the pure madness of his rage, MacLeod was cowed by his despot. He turned and began marshalling the crew aboard great wagons that were waiting at the station.
“You take your seat in that wagon, young man!” roared Britt, shaking that hateful, hairy fist under Wade’s nose. “We’ll see about all this later! Get onto that wagon!”
At the opposite side of the station was the mail-stage, a dusty, rusty conveyance with a lurching canopy of cracked leather above its four seats, and four doleful horses waiting the snap of the driver’s whip.
Without a word to Britt, Wade led the way to the coach, and set the suit-case between the seats. He limped as he walked, and his teeth were set in pain.
He gave his hand to the girl, and she silently accepted the assistance and took her place in the coach.
Then he turned to meet the fiery gaze of the Honorable Pulaski, who had followed close on their heels, choking with expletives.
“I reckon I see through this now,” he growled. “Tryin’ to cut out the cleanest feller in the Umcolcus with your dude airs! But Rod Ide’s girl ain’t to be fooled by city notions. She knows a man when she sees him.” He chucked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of MacLeod, busy with the laggard men. “Go aboard, and let this be an end of your meddling, young man.”
“You just speak for yourself and attend to your business, Mr. Britt!” cried the girl, with a spirit that cowed even the tyrant’s bluster. “‘Rod Ide’s girl,’ as you call her, can choose all her own affairs, and you needn’t scowl at me, for I’m not on your pay-roll and I’m not afraid of you!”