Frank strode off under the trees.
Allie had steeled herself to anything, and those shots warned her that now she had two less enemies to contend with, and that she must be quick to seize the first opportunity to act. She could leap upon the mustang, and if she was lucky she could get away. She could jump for the Winchester and surely shoot one of these villains, perhaps both of them. But the spirit that gave her the nerve to attempt either plan bade her wait, not too long, but longer, in the hope of a more favorable moment.
Frank returned to Fresno, and he carried the sack of gold that had caused dissension. Fresno laughed.
“Sandy’s plugged hard—low down,” said Frank. “He can’t live. An’ Old Miles is croaked.”
“A-huh! Frank, I’ll go git the other packs. An’ you see what’s in this sack,” said Fresno.
When he got out of sight, Allie slipped the lasso from her waist.
“I don’t need that hanging to me,” she said.
“Sure you don’t, sweetheart,” replied the ruffian Frank. “Thet man Fresno is rough with ladies. Now I’m gentle.... Come an’ let me spill this sack in your lap.”
“I guess not,” replied Allie.
“Wal, you’re sure a cat... Look at her eyes!... All right, don’t git mad at me.”