He reached out a long gloved hand and grasped her arm. “What do you mean, sir?” demanded Jane, trying to wrench free.
“Sure I mean a lot,” he said, grimly. “You stood for the love-makin’ of that Springer outfit. Now you’re goin’ to get a taste of somethin’ not so mushy.”
“Let go of me—you—you ruffian!” cried Jane, struggling fiercely. She was both furious and terrified.
“Shucks! Your fightin’ will only make it interestin’. Come here, you deceitful little cat.” And he lifted her out of her saddle over in front of him. Jones’ horse, that had been frightened and plunging, ran away into the cedars. Then Jones proceeded to embrace Jane. She managed to keep her mouth from contact with his, but he kissed her face and neck, kisses that seemed to pollute her.
“Jane, I’m ridin’ out of this country for good,” he said. “An’ I’ve just been waitin’ for this chance. You bet you’ll remember Beady Jones.”
Jane realized that Jones would stop at nothing. Frantically she fought to get away from him, and to pitch herself to the ground. She screamed. She beat and tore at him. She scratched his face till the blood flowed. And as her struggles increased with her fright, she gradually slipped down between him and the pommel of his saddle, with head hanging down on one side and her feet on the other. This was awkward and painful, but infinitely preferable to being crushed in his arms. He was riding off with her as if she had been an empty sack. Suddenly Jane’s hands, while trying to hold on to something to lessen the severe jolt of her position, came in contact with Jones’ gun. Dare she draw it and shoot him? Then all at once her ears filled with the tearing gallop of another horse. Inverted as she was, she was able to see and recognize Springer ride right at Jones and yell piercingly. Next she felt Jones’ hard jerk at his gun. But, Jane had hold of it, and suddenly she had her little hands like steel. The fierce energy with which Jones wrestled to draw his gun threw Jane from the saddle. And when she dropped clear of the horse the gun came with her.
“Hands up, Beady!” she heard Springer call out, as she lay momentarily face down in the dust. Then she struggled to her knees, and crawled to get away from proximity to the horses. She still clung to the heavy gun. And when, breathless and almost collapsing, she fell back on the ground she saw Jones with his hands above his head and Springer on foot with levelled gun.
“Sit tight, cowboy,” ordered the rancher, in a hard tone. “It’ll take mighty little to make me bore you.”
Then, while still covering Jones, evidently ready for any sudden move, Springer spoke again. “Jane, did you come out to meet this cowboy?” he asked.
“Oh, no! How can you ask that?” cried Jane, almost sobbing.