“He’ll not tell me any such a thing,” June protested. But her heart sank. She was not sure whether her husband would grovel. If he did—if he did—
The jeering voice went on taunting its victim. “If I was you I’d use that gun or I’d crawl into a hole. Ain’t you got any spunk a-tall? I’m tellin’ you that June’s goin’ with me instead o’ you, an’ that you’re goin’ to tell her to go. Tha’s the kind of a man she married.”
“No, Mr. Houck, I don’t reckon—”
Houck moved forward, evenly, without haste, eyes cold as chilled steel and as unyielding. “Gimme that gun, if you ain’t goin’ to use it.” He held out a hand.
“Don’t, Bob,” begged June, in a panic of dismay.
While his heart fluttered with apprehension Bob told himself, over and over, that he would not hand the revolver to Houck. He was still saying it when his right arm began to move slowly forward. The weapon passed from one to the other.
June gave a sobbing sound of shame and despair. She felt like a swimmer in a swift current when the deep waters are closing over his head.
“Now tell her you ain’t good enough for her, that you’ve got no sand in yore craw, and she’s to go with me,” ordered Houck.
“No.” Young Dillon’s voice came dry from a throat like cotton.
The big man caught Bob’s wrist and slowly twisted. The boy gave an agonized howl of pain. June was white to the lips, but she made no attempt to interfere. It was too late. Bob must show the stuff that was in him. He must go through to a fighting finish or he must prove himself a weakling.