“Why, yes,” he said, his look suddenly hardening as he confronted Beasley’s face. “I had forgotten. This must surely be Miss—Miss Rest. That’s the name Mrs. Ransford, the old woman at the farm, said. Rest.” He repeated the name as though it were pleasant to his ears.
“Course,” cried Curly cheerfully. “That’s who it is—sure.”
“Rest, eh? Miss—Rest,” murmured the preoccupied Pete. Then he added, half to himself, “My, but she’s a dandy! Ain’t—ain’t she a pictur’, ain’t she——?”
Buck suddenly pushed him aside, and his action was probably rougher than he knew. But for some reason he did not care. For some reason he had no thought for any one but the fair creature lying in his arms. His head was throbbing with a strange excitement, and he moved swiftly toward the door, anxious to leave the inquisitive eyes of his companions behind him.
As he reached the door Beasley’s hateful tones arrested him.
“Say, you ain’t takin’ that pore thing up to the fort, are you?” he jeered.
Buck swung about with the swiftness of a panther. His eyes were ablaze with a cold fire.
“You rotten outlaw parson!” he cried.
He waited for the insult to drive home. Then when he saw the fury in the other’s face, a fury he intended to stir, he went on—
“Another insinuation like that an’ I’ll shoot you like the dog you are,” he cried, and without waiting for an answer he turned to the others. “Say, fellers,” he went on, “I’m takin’ this gal wher’ she belongs—down to the farm. I’m goin’ to hand her over to the old woman there. An’ if I hear another filthy suggestion from this durned skunk Beasley, what I said goes. It’s not a threat. It’s a promise, sure, an’ I don’t ever forgit my promises.”