But Cattle Kate Cathrew was made of different stuff. She flung up her clenched fists and shook them at the clear skies where the rose of dawn was spreading.
“You ——!” she swore, “I always hated your narrow eyes and that mouth of yours! So you are the prospector, Smith, who has been so inquisitive at Cordova! It was you who shot Big Basford in the hand!”
Fair nodded.
“To see fair play,” he said.
“And it is you who’ve done all this! Oh, damn your soul to hell!”
She dropped her hands, caught the rein hanging on Bluefire’s neck, struck her heels to his flanks and quick as thought whirled him away toward the cut. The group between her and the entrance fell floundering apart before the stallion’s charge.
With a dozen leaps she almost reached the wall.
“You can’t get away with this, Brand Fair!” she screamed, “I’m a match for you!” and jerked at her rifle in its loops.
In her rage she was inept, so that the weapon caught, hindering her purpose for a moment.
But that purpose was clear to several in the intense group of watchers—to Rod Stone—to Fair himself—and to one other.