“Want to shoot up poor Jake, do you? An’ you an’ him all set for a honeymoon. Well, go to it, June. You can’t miss now.”
He stood a yard or so from her, easy and undisturbed, laughing in genuine enjoyment. He liked the child’s pluck. The situation, with its salty tang of danger, was wholly to his taste.
But he had disarmed the edge of June’s anger and apprehension. His amusement was too real. It carried the scene from tragedy to farce.
June’s outburst had not been entirely for the sake of Bob. Back of the immediate cause was the desire to break away from this man’s dominance. She had rebelled in the hope of establishing her individual freedom. Now she knew this was vain. What was the use of opposing one who laughed at her heroics and ignored the peril of his position? There was not any way to beat him.
She pushed the six-shooter back into its holster and cried out at him bitterly. “I think you’re the devil or one of his fiends.”
“An’ I think you’re an angel—sometimes,” he mocked.
“I hate you!” she said, and two rows of strong little white teeth snapped tight.
“Sho! Tha’s just a notion you got. You like me fine, if you only knew it, girl.”
She was still shaken with the emotion through which she had passed. “You never were nearer death, Jake Houck, than right now a minute ago.”
His back to Dillon, the cowman gave a curt command. “Hit the trail, boy—sudden.”