The Sheriff's Son
"Were you calling me, missie?" he jeered.
"Let me out," she demanded. "When my brothers find me—"
"If they find you," he corrected with a hiccough.
"They 'll find me. By this time everybody in Huerfano Park is searching for me. Before night half of Battle Butte will be in the saddle. Well, when they find me, do you think you won't be punished for this?"
"For what?" demanded the man. "You fell in. I have n't touched you."
"Will that help you, do you think?"
His rage broke into speech. "You 're aimin' to stop my clock, are you? Take another guess, you mischief-making vixen. What's to prevent me from emptying my forty-four into you when I get good and ready, then hitting the trail for Mexico?"
She knew he was speaking the thoughts that had been drifting through his mind in whiskey-lit ruminations. That he was a wanton killer she had always heard. If he could persuade himself it could be done with safety, he would not hesitate to make an end of her.
This was the sort of danger she could fight against—and she did.
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