Just then a halloo, from the promontory brought Anson up with a start. Muttering to himself, he strode out toward the jagged rocks that hid the outlook. Moze shuffled his burly form after Anson.
“Miss, it shore was grand—thet performance of Mister Gunman Riggs,” remarked Jim Wilson, attentively studying the girl.
“Much obliged to you for lending me your gun,” she replied. “I—I hope I hit him—a little.”
“Wal, if you didn't sting him, then Jim Wilson knows nothin' about lead.”
“Jim Wilson? Are you the man—the outlaw my uncle Al knew?”
“Reckon I am, miss. Fer I knowed Al shore enough. What 'd he say aboot me?”
“I remember once he was telling me about Snake Anson's gang. He mentioned you. Said you were a real gun-fighter. And what a shame it was you had to be an outlaw.”
“Wal! An' so old Al spoke thet nice of me.... It's tolerable likely I'll remember. An' now, miss, can I do anythin' for you?”
Swift as a flash she looked at him.
“What do you mean?”