When the outlaw chief spoke of the letter Lucille’s face flushed, and her eyes brightened with indignation and anger. She knew that she was the victim of a plot, and quick as a flash she whipped out from her belt a small revolver and threw it forward, her finger upon the trigger.
There was no tremor of the hand, the act was one of determined intention to kill the man, and she would have done so then and there, for he was caught wholly off his guard, had not Jack Jessop struck up her hand just as she pulled trigger.
The bullet, as it was, cut through the corner of the chief’s sombrero.
“A close call, that! Jack Jessop, you saved my life, so I’ll not kill you, as I intended to do; that act saved you.”
“I didn’t do it for you, but to save her,” grunted Jack.
“Oh, I know your intention, but the act was the same, for you saved me from death.
“Miss Fallon, you are as quick as a flash as a drawer, and a ready hand with a revolver. You owe it to Jack Jessop that you do not suffer for your intended taking of my life, for my men would have been quickly revenged upon you. Give me that weapon, please.”
Lucille sat, white, silent, and almost despairing. But she turned and handed the weapon to Jack Jessop, who in turn surrendered it with his own weapons to the chief.
“Get off the box, Jack.”
The man obeyed.