“On the ground? That what you mean?” The dark eyes flashed anger.
“Well, you might say so. He sorta stumbled, an’ he’d been right sassy to Dusty, so—” Burt’s explanation died away. He felt he was not getting very far with it.
“So you acted like brutes to him—to a man who had just fought for me when—when—” A sob of chagrin and vexation choked up in her throat. She stamped her foot in exasperation.
“Don’t get excited about me,” the victim gibed. “I’m nothing but a gay-cat anyhow. What’s it matter?”
Dusty strutted out of the house, his spurs making music.
The girl turned on him with pantherish swiftness.
“Who told you to torture this man, Dusty? What right have you got to make yourself law on the Diamond Bar? You’re only a drunken lunkhead, aren’t you? Or did Father ask you to be judge and jury on the ranch?”
It was ludicrous to see the complacency vanish from the fatuous face. The jaw fell and the mouth opened.
“Why, Miss Betty, I figured as how he’d done you a meanness, an’ I thought—”
She cut his explanation short with stinging ruthlessness. “What for? You weren’t hired to think, but to obey orders. You’d better get back into the wheatfield before Father comes. Pronto.”