“Hold on there!” yelled Riggs, in alarm.
“Damme, Jim, if she didn't mean bizness!” exclaimed the outlaw.
“Wal, now—see heah, Miss. Would you bore him—if you hed a gun?” inquired Wilson, with curious interest. There was more of respect in his demeanor than admiration.
“No. I don't want his cowardly blood on my hands,” replied the girl. “But I'd make him dance—I'd make him run.”
“Shore you can handle a gun?”
She nodded her answer while her eyes flashed hate and her resolute lips twitched.
Then Wilson made a singularly swift motion and his gun was pitched butt first to within a foot of her hand. She snatched it up, cocked it, aimed it, all before Anson could move. But he yelled:
“Drop thet gun, you little devil!”
Riggs turned ghastly as the big blue gun lined on him. He also yelled, but that yell was different from Anson's.
“Run or dance!” cried the girl.