“You are!” cried Wilson. “Give me a man’s chance and I’ll thrash you here and now to prove it.”
For answer Y.D. clucked to his horse and dragged his enemy a few yards farther. “How’s the goin’, Frank?” he said, in mock cordiality. “Think you can stand it as far as the crick?”
But at that instant an unexpected scene flashed before Y.D. He caught just a glimpse of it—just enough to indicate what might happen. The girl who had been tending the fire was rushing upon him with a red-hot iron extended before her. Quicker than he could throw himself from the saddle she had struck him in the face with it.
“You brand our calves!” she cried in a fury of recklessness. “I’ll brand YOU—damn you!”
Y.D. threw himself from the saddle, but in the suddenness of her onslaught he failed to clear it properly, and stumbled to the ground. In a moment she was on him and had whipped his gun from his belt.
“Get up!” she said. And he got up.
“Walk to that post, put your arms around it with your back to me, and stand there.” He did so.
The girl kept him covered with the revolver while she released the lariat that bound her father.
“Are you hurt, Dad?” she inquired solicitously.
“No, just shaken up,” he answered, scrambling to his feet.