"One step ahead," directed Billy when the gun-belt was on the ground. "And up with that left hand."
Jack Murray, thumbs locked together over his head, stepped out of the gun-belt. Billy went to him, rammed the six-shooter muzzle against his spine and patted him from top to toe in search of possible hide-outs. He found none except a pocket knife which did not cause him apprehension.
"Le's take up the thread of our discourse," said Billy, "farther down the hill. Walk along, cowboy, walk along."
With Billy carrying both rifles and Jack's discarded gun-belt, they walked along downhill to where Billy's pony stood in a three-cornered doze. It was then that Jack Murray caught sight of Hazel Walton lying on her back behind a stone, her arms over her face. She looked extremely limp and lifeless.
"I didn't shoot her!" cried the startled Jack.
"I know you didn't," said Billy. "The lady's restin', that's all. We'll wait till she feels like moving."
Hazel Walton uncovered her face. There was a large and purpling lump in the middle of her forehead, the skin of her pretty nose was scratched, a bruise defaced one cheek bone, and one eye was slightly black.
"Your work, you polecat," Billy declared succinctly. "You'll be lynched for mauling her like that."
But Hazel Walton was just. She sat up, supporting herself by an arm, and dispelled Billy's false impression. "He never touched me—and he could have shot me if he'd wanted to."
"So kind of him not to," said Billy with sarcasm. "Who is responsible for hurting you? Your face is bruises all over."