This time the steady light-gray eyes met Helen's, and if there was not a smile in them or behind them she was still further baffled.
“Helen, I reckon you said you didn't want this fellow's attention.”
“I certainly said that,” replied Helen, quickly. Just then Bo slipped close to her and gave her arm a little squeeze. Probably Bo's thought was like hers—here was a real Western man. That was her first impression, and following swiftly upon it was a sensation of eased nerves.
Riggs swaggered closer to Dale.
“Say, Buckskin, I hail from Texas—”
“You're wastin' our time an' we've need to hurry,” interrupted Dale. His tone seemed friendly. “An' if you ever lived long in Texas you wouldn't pester a lady an' you sure wouldn't talk like you do.”
“What!” shouted Riggs, hotly. He dropped his right hand significantly to his hip.
“Don't throw your gun. It might go off,” said Dale.
Whatever Riggs's intention had been—and it was probably just what Dale evidently had read it—he now flushed an angry red and jerked at his gun.
Dale's hand flashed too swiftly for Helen's eye to follow it. But she heard the thud as it struck. The gun went flying to the platform and scattered a group of Indians and Mexicans.