But he did not throw up his hands. With the rash bravery of inexperience, he dropped his knife and snatched out his automatic pistol. On the instant the puncher’s big revolver roared. The pistol went spinning out of the hunter’s hand. Through the smoke of the shot the puncher leveled his weapon.
“Put up your hands!––put them up!” screamed the girl, urging her horse forward.
The hunter obeyed, none too soon. For several moments he stood rigid, glaring half dazed at the revolver muzzle and the cool hard face behind it. Then slowly he twisted about to see who it was had warned him. The girl had ridden up within a few feet.
“You––you tenderfoot!” she flung at him. “Are you locoed? Hadn’t you any more sense than to do that? Why, if Daddy hadn’t told Mr. Gowan to wait––”
“You shore would have got yours, you––rustler!” snapped the puncher. “It was you, though, Miss Chuckie––your being here.” 12
“But he’s not a rustler, Kid,” protested the girl. “Where are your eyes? Look at his riding togs. If they’re not tenderfoot, howling tenderfoot––!”
“Just the same, honey, he’s shot a yearling,” said Knowles, frowning at the culprit. “Suppose you let me do the questioning.”
“Ah––pardon me,” remarked the hunter, rebounding from apprehension to easy assurance at sight of the girl’s smile. “I would prefer to be third-degreed by the young lady. Permit me to salute the Queen of the Outlaws!”
He bent over the fingers of one hand to raise his silver-banded sombrero by its high peak. It left his head––and a bullet left the muzzle of the puncher’s revolver. A hole appeared low down in the side of the sombrero.
“That’ll do, Kid,” ordered the cowman. “No more hazing, even if he is a tenderfoot.”