He nodded stiffly, still scowling, and started toward the door, but paused with his hand on the latch. When he turned and came back to the table, she instantly retreated to the stove and laid her hand on the kettle.
"You needn't go to pick up that thing," he said, both fists clenched on the tabletop. "I ain't gonna hurt you. I want to know something. Billy Wingo comes here, doesn't he?"
"He comes—yes. Why not?"
"You like him?"
"What's that to you?"
"Do you like him?"
"He's a friend of mine."
"A girl don't flush up that way over a friend. I know. And I've heard, too. They say you like Bill Wingo a lot. They say you were going with Nate Samson till you met Bill. Is that right?"
"It's none of your business."
"Lemme tell you something, young lady. Don't you think for a minute that Bill Wingo feller can give you one tenth what I can. Just because he was elected sheriff last week don't signify. Yours truly is the dog with the brass collar around here, and don't you forget it. You marry Bill, and you'll regret it."