“I am. Sorry you don’t like the business, Miss Lee.” He added dryly: “But then you always were hard to please. You weren’t satisfied when I was a rustler.”
Her eyes swept him with a look, whether of reproach or contempt he was not sure. But the hard derision of his gaze did not soften. Mentally as well as physically he was a product of the sun and the wind, as tough and unyielding as a greasewood sapling. For a friend he would go the limit, and he could not forgive her that she had distrusted him.
“But mebbe you’d prefer it if I was rustling stages,” he went on, looking straight at her.
“What do you mean?” she asked breathlessly.
“I want to have a talk with you.”
“Suppose we step around to the side of the house. We’ll be freer from interruption there.”
He led the way, taking her consent for granted. With him he carried a chair for her from the porch.
“If you’ll be as brief as possible, Mr. Flatray. I’ve been in the desert two days and want to change my clothes.”
“I’ll not detain you. It’s about this gold robbery.”