Curly’s senses had never been more alert. He noticed that Buck had on a red necktie that had got loose from his shirt and climbed up his neck. It had black polka dots and was badly frayed. Sweeney was chewing tobacco. He would have that chew in his mouth after they had finished what they were going to do.
“Ain’t he the gamest ever?” someone whispered.
The rustler heard the words and they braced him as a drink of whiskey does a man who has been on a bad spree. His heart was chill with fear, but he had strung his will not to let him give way.
“Better do it at the cottonwoods down by the creek,” Buck told Bonfils in a low voice.
The foreman of the Bar Double M moved his head in assent. “All right. Let’s get it over quick as we can.”
A sound of flying feet came from outside. Someone smothered an oath of surprise. Kate Cullison stood in the doorway, all out of breath and panting.
She took the situation in before she spoke, guessed exactly what they intended to do. Yet she flung her imperious question at them.
“What is it?”
They had not a word to say for themselves. In that room were some of the most callous hearts in the territory. Not one man in a million could have phased them, but this slender girl dumfounded them. Her gaze settled on Buck. His wandered for help to Sweeney, to Jake, to Kite Bonfils.
“Now look-a-here, Miss Kate,” Sweeney began to explain.