He nodded. "You, nobody else."
She laughed harshly without a note of hysteria. "You're two hundred years behind the times. Men don't carry off their women any more."
"Here's one that will," he told her. "You're going with me, y'understand. And you needn't stop to wash your face or change into petticoats either. I'm not letting you out of my sight. If you wanna take any extra duds along, you can wrap 'em up. What's the answer—you going willing or will I have to tie you up in a bundle?"
"You idiot, even your friends wouldn't stand you turning such a trick as this! I'll bet you couldn't get your own men to help you. That's why you had to come alone."
His suddenly bloating features gave evidence that her shot had told. Bending down, he shook her shoulder roughly. And now for the first time she smelt his breath. It was rank with the raw odor of whisky. So that was what had given him the wild idea of carrying her off by force. The man was drunk. Sober, he was bad enough. Drunk, he was capable of anything.
She reached stoveward for the lid lifter. Rafe seized her wrist and jerked her sidewise.
"None of that!" he snarled. "Gonna get your clothes or not?"
"I'll get them," she said calmly. "Let go of my wrist."
If she could win into the next room where the six-shooter was hanging on the wall, it might be possible to—but he did not release her wrist.
"I'll go with you," he told her with a leer. "You're too slippery a customer to trust alone."