Some one in khaki riding-breeches flashed past him. “That’s enough, Dad. I don’t care if he was impudent. You’ve hurt him enough. Let him go now.”
The figure was the boyish one of the equestrienne, but the high indignant voice was feminine enough.
“S’pose you try minding your own business, Bess,” her father said quietly.
“Now, Dad,” she expostulated. “We don’t want any trouble, do we? Make ’em move on, and that’s enough.”
“Tha’s what we’re doin’, Betty,” explained the foreman. “It ain’t our fault if there’s a rookus. We told ’em to light out, an’ they got sassy.”
Tug rose with difficulty. He was a badly hammered hobo. Out of swollen and discolored eyes he looked at the ranchman.
“You quite through with me?” he snarled.
It was a last growl of defiance. His companions were already clambering with their packs out of the wash to the bank above.
“Not quite.” Clint Reed took his daughter by the shoulders and spun her out of the way when she tried to stop him. “Be fresh if you want to, my young wobbly. I reckon I can stand it if you can.” He whirled the tramp round and kicked him away.
“Oh, Dad! Fighting with a tramp,” the girl wailed.