There was something almost wolfish in the facial malignity that distorted him.
“Not a finger.”
“Perhaps you'd give me up now if you had a chance?”
“I would if I did what was right.”
“And you'd sure want to do what was right,” he snarled.
“Take down your arm,” she ordered again, a dangerous glitter in her eyes.
He thrust his evil face close to hers and showed his teeth in a blind rage that forgot everything else.
“Listen here, you little locoed baby. I got something to tell you that'll make your hair curl. You're right, I ain't your brother. I'm Nick Struve—Wolf Struve if you like that better. I lied you into believing me your brother, who ain't ever been anything but a skim-milk quitter. He's dead back there in the cactus somewhere, and I killed him!”
Terror flooded her eyes. Her very breathing hung suspended. She gazed at him in a frozen fascination of horror.
“Killed him because he gave me away seven years ago and was gittin' ready to round on me again. Folks don't live long that play Wolf Struve for a lamb. A wolf! That's what I am, a born wolf, and don't you forget it.”