“It’s easy—if you’ve the grit?” he warned, noting the unease that crept into the girl’s eyes in response.
“The grit?”
“Grit, little kid. Something that don’t rightly belong to a girl’s ordinary make-up.”
Annette’s eyes flashed dangerously.
“I got grit—plenty. Try me,” she snapped.
Again came Sinclair’s laugh.
“You got no use for Pideau,” he said. “And the Wolf sets you crazy mad. You’ve said so. You guess you hate the Wolf, who reckons to force you to marry him whether you like it or not. That’s so, isn’t it? That’s how you’ve said.”
He waited for Annette’s responsive nod.
“They bulldoze you between ’em,” he went on. “They set you working to hand ’em dollars. They hold you to a play that stands you in reach of penitentiary. That’s so. You’re as deep in as them. Well, in one play you can cut it all out. In one play you can make it so I can marry you right off. And it’s a play that’ll bring those two boys up with a round turn before they reach for the rope they’re surely heading for. Sooner or later there’ll be a shoot-up. And that means the rope. Well, you can help me. You can fix things. And when we’re married, and your little kid, our little kid’s born right, you’ll be glad for what you’ve done. And you’ll see your man with swell gold chevrons on his arm, and the pay that hands you the sort of stuff you need from life. You can do it, kid. You surely can.”
The man was watching. His eyes never left the girl’s.