With an exclamation of fright she jumped up, half-dazed with the sight of a man decked in gaudy Indian trappings standing before her. It was as if the Indian she was reading about had suddenly jumped into reality before her very eyes. Her impulse was to scream, but she held it, to demand—
“Who are you?”
“You don’t know me, Miss Alta?” he leered.
“Know you!”—she scanned him more closely—“yes, I do. Why do you spring at me in this way, Bud Nixon?”
“Oh, don’t get mad, little gal; that ain’t the way to treat old friends. Come, meet me decent.” He grabbed at her as he spoke and tried to kiss her.
“Stand back, you insulting devil!” half screamed the girl, giving his ugly face a stinging slap.
“You damned little fury! I’ll show you,” he snarled, grabbing her arm. He flung his other arm about her and bent his face toward hers.
With the strength of desperation she fought to free herself from his brutal embrace. But the more she struggled, the more determined he grew to wreak his ugly will. In despair, she gave a cry for help.
Fred, who was already galloping back to tell her he must go rally his scattered herd, caught the cry and dashed through the brush. The sight set him on fire. Jumping from his mare, he leaped toward the struggling pair and struck Bud on the head. The cur, taken by surprise, loosed his hold and turned to get another blow full in the face. He staggered and fell over the bank backward into Shadow Pool.
Luckily, during the struggle, his revolver had dropped out of its holster. Fred grabbed it, and when the bully, foaming with fury, sputtered back upon the bank, he faced his own weapon.