“I’m sorry. I did my best to go carefully,” the girl answered, stepping forward.
His hand shot forward and caught her wrist Her startled eyes flashed to his face. The man was the convict Blackwell.
“Got anything to eat with you. I’m starving,” he snapped.
“Yes. I shot some quail Let go my hand.”
He laughed evilly, without mirth. “Don’t try any of your sassy ways on me. By God, I’m a wolf on the howl.”
In spite of her supple slenderness there was strength in her small wrists. She fought and twisted till she was worn out in her efforts to free herself. Panting, she faced him.
“Let me go, I tell you.”
For answer his open hand struck her mouth. “Not till you learn your boss. Before I’m through with you a squaw won’t be half so tame as you.”
He dragged her to the horse, took from its case the rifle that hung by the saddle, and flung her from him roughly. Then he pulled himself to the saddle.
“March ahead of me,” he ordered.