“Yes, I'll bet you would if you had me alone. But these outlaws—these sheep-thieves—these tools you hire are better than you and Riggs.... What do you suppose Carmichael will do to you? Carmichael! He's my sweetheart—that cowboy. You know what he did to Riggs. Have you brains enough to know what he'll do to you?”
“He'll not do much,” growled Beasley. But the thick purplish blood was receding from his face. “Your cowpuncher—”
“Bah!” she interrupted, and she snapped her fingers in his face. “He's from Texas! He's from TEXAS!”
“Supposin' he is from Texas?” demanded Beasley, in angry irritation. “What's thet? Texans are all over. There's Jim Wilson, Snake Anson's right-hand man. He's from Texas. But thet ain't scarin' any one.”
He pointed toward Wilson, who shifted uneasily from foot to foot. The girl's flaming glance followed his hand.
“Are you from Texas?” she asked.
“Yes, Miss, I am—an' I reckon I don't deserve it,” replied Wilson. It was certain that a vague shame attended his confession.
“Oh! I believed even a bandit from Texas would fight for a helpless girl!” she replied, in withering scorn of disappointment.
Jim Wilson dropped his head. If any one there suspected a serious turn to Wilson's attitude toward that situation it was the keen outlaw leader.
“Beasley, you're courtin' death,” he broke in.