“Yes. Four of his greasers packed her down the hill—most tore her clothes off, so Roy tells me.”
“Four greasers!... Shore it was Beasley's deal clean through?”
“Yes. Riggs was led. He had an itch for a bad name, you know. But Beasley made the plan. It was Nell they wanted instead of Bo.”
Abruptly Carmichael stalked off down the darkening path, his silver heel-plates ringing, his spurs jingling.
“Hold on, Carmichael,” called Dale, taking a step.
“Oh, Tom!” cried Bo.
“Shore folks callin' won't be no use, if anythin would be,” said Roy. “Las Vegas has hed a look at red liquor.”
“He's been drinking! Oh, that accounts!... he never—never even touched me!”
For once Helen was not ready to comfort Bo. A mighty tug at her heart had sent her with flying, uneven steps toward Dale. He took another stride down the path, and another.
“Dale—oh—please stop!” she called, very low.