“An’ who put you in office? That laugh of an 66 office! Who? Why, Courtrey––th’ biggest thief, th’ coldest murderer in th’ country! He put you there! An’ what are you good for? My daddy was shot––in th’ back––an’ did you make one inquiry into the murder? Come out to Last’s, even to find a clew? Not you! There’s only one sheriff in this Valley––one bit o’ law that will avenge his death––an’ that’s me! Now, you two fine gentlemen––I’m goin’. There’s my hand! I throw th’ cards on th’ table! Shoot me in the back if you’ve got th’ nerve. Come out in th’ open an’ fight! But you better be quick about it!”
With that she backed slowly along the porch, keeping them in view.
“Get away behind me,” she called. There was a path opened instantly, the sound of shuffling feet. Along the porch she went, step by step, stopping every moment or so to keep close hold on her advantage, every nerve strained, every one of her faculties at the top of its power.
She felt for the step with her foot, went down, backed through the crowd, brought them all in the range of the guns which she flashed out now and held upon them.
She was ashy pale, a flaming, vibrant thing. Not a man there but knew she was more dangerous at the moment than cool Jim Last had ever been, for she radiated hatred of her father’s killer 67 in every bitter glance. She had none for whom to be cautious. She was the last of her blood. She was efficient, and she knew it.
Courtrey knew it, and felt the sweat start on his skin.
Service knew it, and hated her for it.
As the girl backed clear there came into her vision a strange figure––the straight, trim figure of a man who stood stiffly at attention, where her imperious words had caught him.
He wore a uniform of semi-military style, leather leggings, a flannel shirt of butternut and a smart, tan, broad-brimmed hat.
He, too, came in the range of the travelling guns and waited their pleasure.