He leaned his head on a hand, turning toward her. The light blue eyes in the freckled face rested on those of the girl.
Presently she added, with a flare of surging anger, “I hate him.”
The blood burned beneath the tan of the brown cheeks. “’Cause.”
“Shucks! That don’t do any good. It don’t buy you anything.”
She swung upon him abruptly. “Don’t you hate the men at the camp when they knock you around?”
“What’d be the use? I duck outa the way next time.”
Two savage little demons glared at him out of her dark eyes. “Ain’t you got any sand in yore craw, Bob Dillon? Do you aim to let folks run on you all yore life? I’d fight ’em if ’t was the last thing I ever did.”
“Different here. I’d get my block knocked off about twice a week. You don’t see me in any scraps where I ain’t got a look-in. I’d rather let ’em boot me a few,” he said philosophically.
She frowned at him, in a kind of puzzled wonderment. “You’re right queer. If I was a man—”