He bent his head thoughtfully while his red hands smoothed his sombrero.
“Shore you girls haven't been West very long,” he muttered, as if apologizing for them. “An' I reckon it takes time to learn the ways of a country.”
“West or no West, I won't have fights deliberately picked, and men shot, even if they do threaten me,” declared Helen, positively.
“All right, Miss Nell, shore I respect your wishes,” he returned. “But I'll tell you this. If Beasley turns you an' Bo out of your home—wal, I'll look him up on my own account.”
Helen could only gaze at him as he backed to the door, and she thrilled and shuddered at what seemed his loyalty to her, his love for Bo, and that which was inevitable in himself.
“Reckon you might save us all some trouble—now if you'd—just get mad—an' let me go after thet greaser.”
“Greaser! Do you mean Beasley?”
“Shore. He's a half-breed. He was born in Magdalena, where I heard folks say nary one of his parents was no good.”
“That doesn't matter. I'm thinking of humanity of law and order. Of what is right.”
“Wal, Miss Nell, I'll wait till you get real mad—or till Beasley—”