The big gun boomed and leaped almost out of her hand. She took both hands, and called derisively as she fired again. The second bullet hit at Riggs's feet, scattering the dust and fragments of stone all over him. He bounded here—there—then darted for the rocks. A third time the heavy gun spoke and this bullet must have ticked Riggs, for he let out a hoarse bawl and leaped sheer for the protection of a rock.
“Plug him! Shoot off a leg!” yelled Snake Anson, whooping and stamping, as Riggs got out of sight.
Jim Wilson watched the whole performance with the same quietness that had characterized his manner toward the girl. Then, as Riggs disappeared, Wilson stepped forward and took the gun from the girl's trembling hands. She was whiter than ever, but still resolute and defiant. Wilson took a glance over in the direction Riggs had hidden and then proceeded to reload the gun. Snake Anson's roar of laughter ceased rather suddenly.
“Hyar, Jim, she might have held up the whole gang with thet gun,” he protested.
“I reckon she 'ain't nothin' ag'in' us,” replied Wilson.
“A-huh! You know a lot about wimmen now, don't you? But thet did my heart good. Jim, what 'n earth would you have did if thet 'd been you instead of Riggs?”
The query seemed important and amazing. Wilson pondered.
“Shore I'd stood there—stock-still—an' never moved an eye-winker.”
“An' let her shoot!” ejaculated Anson, nodding his long head. “Me, too!”
So these rough outlaws, inured to all the violence and baseness of their dishonest calling, rose to the challenging courage of a slip of a girl. She had the one thing they respected—nerve.