“Why, I brought her.”
“What for?”
Cig sneered contempt. “Ain’t you got any brains under that big lid you wear? I brought her because she’s Clint Reed’s kid, an’ I ain’t squared my account with him. See?”
Any one watching closely would have seen a change in Black’s eyes. Something hard and steely passed into them. “What you aimin’ to do with her?” he asked quietly.
“Ain’t made up my mind. Mebbe I never will give her back. Mebbe I’ll stick that bird Reed for a ransom. No can tell.”
“So?” Black swung from the saddle and lounged forward in the bandy-legged, high-heeled fashion of the range rider. “I’ll do a li’l guessin’ my own self. Mebbe I’ll take her right back to Clint p.d.q.”
The eyes of the crook narrowed. “Say, where d’youse get that stuff, fellow? When was youse elected king o’ Prooshia?”
“What kind of an outfit do you figure this is?” the range rider asked. “Think we’re makin’ war on kids, do you? Well, we’re not.”
“Who asked youse to butt in on my business?” Cig crouched, snarling, a menace and a threat. “That ain’t supposed to be safe for black-headed guys, I’ll tell the world.”
“Not yore business any more’n mine. We’re in this together. I’ll tell you right now you can’t pull a play like that an’ get away with it.”