“Carmichael! you're not serious?” she exclaimed.
“Serious? I shore am. Thet's the only way, Miss Nell. An' I reckon it's what Al would want. An' between you an' me—it would be easier than ropin' a calf. These fellars round Pine don't savvy guns. Now, I come from where guns mean somethin'. An' when I tell you I can throw a gun slick an' fast, why I shore ain't braggin'. You needn't worry none about me, Miss Nell.”
Helen grasped that he had taken the signs of her shocked sensibility to mean she feared for his life. But what had sickened her was the mere idea of bloodshed in her behalf.
“You'd—kill Beasley—just because there are rumors of his—treachery?” gasped Helen.
“Shore. It'll have to be done, anyhow,” replied the cowboy.
“No! No! It's too dreadful to think of. Why, that would be murder. I—I can't understand how you speak of it—so—so calmly.”
“Reckon I ain't doin' it calmly. I'm as mad as hell,” said Carmichael, with a reckless smile.
“Oh, if you are serious then, I say no—no—no! I forbid you. I don't believe I'll be robbed of my property.”
“Wal, supposin' Beasley does put you off—an' takes possession. What 're you goin' to say then?” demanded the cowboy, in slow, cool deliberation.
“I'd say the same then as now,” she replied.