Ike readily agreed with her.
“I’m durned sure you can’t,” he cried heartily. “They jest think it a rotten kind of a job handin’ a red-ha’r’d gal a few words an’ an a’mighty fine hunk o’ gold. That’s cos they ain’t been dragged up jest right. You can’t expect elegant feedin’ at a hog trough. Now it’s kind o’ diff’rent wi’ me. I——”
“Oh, quit,” cried the sharp voice of the exasperated Abe Allinson. And there was no doubt but he was speaking for the rest of the audience.
Pete followed him in a tone of equal resentment.
“That ain’t no sort o’ way ad—dressin’ a leddy,” he said angrily.
“Course it ain’t,” sneered Beasley. “Ther’s sure bats roostin’ in your belfry, Ike.”
The boy jumped round on the instant. His good-nature could stand the jibes of his comrades generally, but Beasley’s sneers neither he nor any one else could endure.
“Who’s that yappin’?” the youngster cried, glowering into the speaker’s face. “That the feller Buck called an outlaw passon?” he demanded. His right hand slipped to the butt of his gun. “Say you,” he cried threateningly, “if you got anything to say I’m right here yearnin’ to listen.”
Joan saw the half-drawn weapon, and in the same instant became aware of a movement on the part of the man Beasley. She was horrified, expecting one of those fierce collisions she had heard about. But the moment passed, and, though she did not realize it, it was caused by Ike’s gun leaving its holster first.
Her woman’s fear urged her, and she raised a protesting hand.