The Sheriff's Son
beat me up. Hal Rutherford ordered me to pull my freight. That's all right. I won't interfere in what don't concern me. Yore family says 'Hands off!' Fine. Suits me. Stay there or get out. It's none of my business. See?"
"You don't mean you 'll … leave me here?" she cried in horror.
"Sure," he exulted. "If I pulled you out of there, like as not you'd have me beat up again. None o' my business! That's what yore folks have been drilling into me. I reckon they 're right. Anyhow, I 'll play it safe."
"But— Oh, you can't do that. Even you can't do such a thing," she cried desperately. "Why, men don't do things like that."
"Don't they? Watch me, missie." He leaned over the pit, his broken, tobacco-stained teeth showing in an evil grin. "Just keep an eye on yore Uncle Dan. Nobody ever yet done me a meanness and got away with it. I reckon the Rutherfords won't be the first. It ain't on the cyards," he boasted.
"You 're going away … to leave me here … to starve?"
"Who said anything about going away? I 'll stick around for a while. It's none of my business whether you starve or live high. Do just
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