"Well, she lives up to the name all right. Ain't she hell?" Cash drooped lower against the bar. "Say, Nat-u-ritch, you take chances with me when you interfere that way like you did jest now."
Along the platform Jim swung, the gray dust whitening his leather chaps and dusting his shirt and hat with a heavy powder. He had ridden hard to keep his appointment with Bill and his men. As he entered the centre door of the saloon he watched Hawkins and the little Indian girl with curiosity. He took in the situation at a glance. The drunken Chief, the tigerish Hawkins bending over the girl like an animal about to crunch a ewe lamb, and the contents of the smashed bottle that Nick was wiping away told him what had occurred. Cash was saying:
"Nat-u-ritch, you spoiled a very puty deal, and I ain't complaisant a whole lot with people as do that, but I'm goin' to pass that up, 'cause you please me, and I'm goin' to annex you. You're comin' to my wickyup—savvy? And to seal the bargain, and to show you that I ain't proud like the ordinary white man, I'm goin' to give you a kiss."
Before Hawkins could catch the resisting girl in his arms, Jim quietly stepped between them.
"Drop that, Hawkins." The voice of the Englishman was electrical. Jim's men jumped to their feet. At a move of Cash's hand to his belt they grasped their guns. "Don't pull your gun, Cash," Jim said. "You want to get your gang together before you do that. My boys would shoot you into ribbons." Jim was smoking a long cigar. He coolly took it from his lips, knocked off the ashes, then bent over Nat-u-ritch and whispered to her. Her eyes alone answered him. He was about to join his men when Cash Hawkins swaggered up to him.
"Say, son, ain't you courtin' disaster interferin' in my private business?" he threatened. He knew he dare not fight alone against Jim and his men, so he played for time. If only he had his gang!
Jim replied: "Do you call it 'business' robbing Indians when they're drunk, and insulting women?"
The cow-boy honor—for Cash had a crude drilling in the laws of the West—flamed at the last words, and in all sincerity, true to his American point of view, he answered, hotly:
"Don't you accuse me of insultin' women. She ain't a woman—she's a squaw."
Jim turned away. Why argue?