Curly and Ike nodded agreement.
But Beasley, whatever his fears of the storm, understood the men of his world. Nor had he any fear of them, and Buck’s threat only had the effect of rousing the worst side of his nature, at all times very near the surface.
“Lady? Psha’! Write her down a woman, they’re all the same, only dressed different. Seems to me it’s better they’re all just women. An’ Pete’s good enough for any woman, eh, Pete? She’s just a nice, dandy bit o’ soft flesh an’ blood, eh, Pete? Guess you like them sort, eh, Pete?”
The man’s laugh was a hideous thing to listen to, but Pete was not listening. Buck heard, and his dark face went ghastly pale, even though his eyes were fixed on the beautiful face with its closed, heavily-lashed eyes. Pete’s attention was held by the delicate contours of her perfect figure and the gaping, bedraggled white shirt-waist, where the soft flesh of her fair bosom showed through, and the delicate lace and ribbons of her undergarments were left in full view.
No one offered Beasley encouragement and his laugh fell flat. And when Curly spoke it was to express something of the general thought.
“Wonder how she came here?” he said thoughtfully.
“Seems as though the storm had kind o’ dumped her down,” Abe Allinson admitted.
Again Beasley chuckled.
“Say, was ther’ ever such a miracle o’ foolishness as you fellers? You make me laff—or tired, or something. Wher’d she come from? Ain’t the Padre sold his farm?” he demanded, turning on Buck. “Ain’t he sold it to a woman? An’ ain’t he expectin’ her along?”
Buck withdrew his eyes from the beautiful face, and looked up in answer to the challenge.