Her eyes blazed. The smouldering passion that had been accumulating for weeks boiled up. She dragged out the six-shooter from its holster.
“I won’t have you touch him! I won’t! If you do I’ll—I’ll—”
Houck stopped in his stride, held fast by sheer amazement. The revolver pointed straight at him. It did not waver a hair’s breadth. He knew how well she could shoot. Only the day before she had killed a circling hawk with a rifle. The bird had dropped like a plummet, dead before it struck the ground. Now, as his gaze took in the pantherish ferocity of her tense pose, he knew that she was keyed up for tragedy. She meant to defend the boy from him if it resulted in homicide.
It did not occur to him to be afraid. He laughed aloud, half in admiration, half in derision.
“I b’lieve you would, you spunky li’l wild cat,” he told her in great good humor.
“Run, Bob,” called June to the boy.
He stood, hesitating. His impulse was to turn and fly, but he could not quite make up his mind to leave her alone with Houck.
The cowman swung toward the girl.
“Keep back!” she ordered.
Her spurt of defiance tickled him immensely. He went directly to her, his stride unfaltering.