Emma’s eyes flashed her resentment, and, for a few seconds, Grace feared that her little companion was about to do something rash. Miss Dean, who had started to rise, now settled back, face flushed, her whole body a-tremble, but more from anger than from fear.
“When I want you I’ll call you,” was the woman’s parting admonition as she turned away, nodding to Grace to follow her.
Belle led her captive off behind some rocks, within easy calling distance of the group of bandits who were still munching at their breakfast and at the same time keeping an eye on Emma Dean.
The instant that Grace could do so without being observed by the men, she thrust her hand inside her tunic and quickly transferred her automatic revolver to the right hand pocket. She was now walking along with both hands in her pockets, feeling more confidence in herself now that a means of defense lay within her right hand.
The mountain woman halted behind a wall of rock, and, leaning against it, surveyed Grace with malignant eyes.
“You Harlowe woman, what do you reckon I ought to do to you?” she demanded.
“I don’t reckon you’d better do anything to me, except to permit myself and companion to return to our camp,” answered Grace, lounging carelessly, scuffing the dirt with the toe of her boot, but not permitting her gaze to leave the face of the mountain woman for a second.
“What if I do?” Belle’s eyes blazed.
“I have friends who never will cease their efforts until you have paid in full, bitterly so, for what you may have done to me or to my companion, Miss Dean.”
“You threaten me?” demanded the woman, her hand slipping to the revolver that swung in its holster from her hip.