Bruce Carrington, on his way back to Fayetteville from the Forks, came about a turn in the road. Betty saw a tall, handsome fellow in the first flush of manhood; Carrington, an angry girl, very beautiful and very indignant, struggling in a man's grasp.
At sight of the new-comer, Murrell, with an oath, released Betty, who, striking her horse with the whip galloped down the road toward the Barony. As she fled past Carrington she bent low in her saddle.
“Don't let him follow me!” she gasped, and Carrington, striding forward, caught Murrell's horse by the bit.
“Not so fast, you!” he said coolly. The two men glared at each other for a brief instant.
“Take your hand off my horse!” exclaimed Murrell hoarsely, his mouth hot and dry with a sense of defeat.
“Can't you see she'd rather be alone?” said Carrington.
“Let go!” roared Murrell, and a murderous light shot from his eyes.
“I don't know but I should pull you out of that saddle and twist your neck!” said Carrington hotly. Murrell's face underwent a swift change.
“You're a bold fellow to force your way into a lover's quarrel,” he said quietly. Carrington's arm dropped at his side. Perhaps, after all, it was that. Murrell thrust his hand into his pocket. “I always give something to the boy who holds my horse,” he said, and tossed a coin in Carrington's direction. “There—take that for your pains!” he added. He pulled his horse about and rode back toward the cross-roads at an easy canter.
Carrington, with an angry flush on his sunburnt cheeks, stood staring down at the coin that glinted in the dusty road, but he was seeing the face of the girl, indignant, beautiful—then he glanced after Murrell.