“I should smile I'm not,” retorted Bo, in cool, deliberate anger of opposition. “You've roped me—and you've struck me! Now get a club—stand off there—out of my reach—and beat me! Oh, if I only knew cuss words fit for you—I'd call you them!”
Snake Anson had stopped playing cards, and was watching, listening, with half-disgusted, half-amused expression on his serpent-like face. Jim Wilson slowly rose to his feet. If any one had observed him it would have been to note that he now seemed singularly fascinated by this scene, yet all the while absorbed in himself. Once he loosened the neck-band of his blouse.
Riggs swung his arm more violently at the girl. But she dodged.
“You dog!” she hissed. “Oh, if I only had a gun!”
Her face then, with its dead whiteness and the eyes of flame, held a tragic, impelling beauty that stung Anson into remonstrance.
“Aw, Riggs, don't beat up the kid,” he protested. “Thet won't do any good. Let her alone.”
“But she's got to shut up,” replied Riggs.
“How 'n hell air you goin' to shet her up? Mebbe if you get out of her sight she'll be quiet.... How about thet, girl?”
Anson gnawed his drooping mustache as he eyed Bo.
“Have I made any kick to you or your men yet?” she queried.