He was conscious of no sound that awakened him, yet he was aware of a presence that drew him from drowsiness to an alert attention. Instinctively, his hand crept to his scabbarded weapon.
“Don't shoot me,” a voice implored with laughter—a warm, vivid voice, that struck pleasantly on his memory.
The Texan turned lazily, and leaned on his elbow. She came smiling out of the brush, light as a roe, and with much of its slim, supple grace. Before, he had seen her veiled by night; the day disclosed her a dark, spirited young creature. The mass of blue-black hair coiled at the nape of the brown neck, the flash of dark eyes beneath straight, dark eyebrows, together with a certain deliberation of movement that was not languor, made it impossible to doubt that she was a Southerner by inheritance, if not by birth.
“I don't reckon I will,” he greeted, smiling. “Down in Texas it ain't counted right good manners to shoot up young ladies.”
“And in Wyoming you think it is.”
“I judge by appearances, ma'am.”
“Then you judge wrong. Those men did not know I was with dad that night. They thought I was another man. You see, they had just lost their suit for damages against dad and some more for the loss of six hundred sheep in a raid last year. They couldn't prove who did it.” She flamed into a sudden passion of resentment. “I don't defend them any. They are a lot of coyotes, or they wouldn't have attacked two men, riding alone.”
He ventured a rapier thrust. “How about the Squaw Creek raid? Don't your friends sometimes forget to fight fair, too?”
He had stamped the fire out of her in an instant. She drooped visibly. “Yes—yes, they do,” she faltered. “I don't defend them, either. Dad had nothing to do with that. He doesn't shoot in the back.”
“I'm glad to hear it,” he retorted cheerfully. “And I'm glad to hear that your friends the enemy didn't know it was a girl they were attacking. Fact is, I thought you were a boy myself when first I happened in and you fanned me with your welcome.”