He was tough, was Rance McCoy; an old gunman, afraid of nothing—not even of his handsome son.
“Well, all I can say is that you’ve got some damned queer ideas,” said Angel slowly.
“Mebby I have,” said the old man.
“No maybe about it,” said Angel sneeringly. “Lila is of age and I’m of age. If I want to marry her, it’s none of yore business.”
“You think not? Well, everybody is entitled to an opinion. I’ve told yuh about me, Angel.”
“Yeah, and I don’t think much of yuh.”
Angel got to his feet and stood there, looking down at his father.
“I knew all along that Lila wasn’t my sister,” he said slowly.
The old man lifted a hand to fend the light from his eyes, as he looked up at his son.
“Billy DuMond told yuh, Angel?”