“So, it’s you, is it?” she cried. “Well, I might ’a’ knowed it was you, and I did partly guess it! You low-lived, knock-kneed, white-livered, flea-bitten, devil-hunted——” She stopped, gasping, unable to find words to express her detestation and hatred; but went on again: “Oh, you mis’rable scum of the earth! You pestiferous, walkin’ image of a man! I’ve found you, and now I settle with you!”
She stopped, and slowly drew a revolver from the folds of her dress. In another moment she would have shot Snaky Pete dead, if one of his men had not knocked the weapon from her hand.
She struggled with this man, shrieking, and tearing at him, frantically trying to regain her revolver.
When she was held, for others were forced to go to their comrade’s aid, she stood panting and glaring at Snaky Pete, who had not said a word, but stared at her with wide eyes that hardly blinked.
“Jane Clayton!” he gasped. “I thought——”
“You thought I’d be too much of a woman, and too big a coward to——”
“I thought you was dead,” he said; “I was told it, and I——”
“Hoped I was, eh? Well, I ain’t! I’m alive enough to make things warm fer ye, and I’m here to do it. Leggo of me!”
This last was directed to the men who clung to her.
“Leggo of me!” she screeched at them, flinging herself to and fro.