Her dishevelled hair
almost hid her dark eyes. They burned in a level glance of hate and
defiance. She was a little lioness, quivering with fiery life, fight in
every line of her form.
"All right, don't eat then--starve!" said Snap.
"I'll starve before I eat what you give me."
The rustlers laughed. Holderness blew out a puff of smoke and smiled.
Snap glowered upon Mescal and then upon his amiable companions. One of
them, a ruddyfaced fellow, walked toward Mescal.
"Cool down, Snap, cool down," he said. "We're not goin' to stand for a
girl starvin'. She ain't eat a bite yet. Here, Miss, let me untie your
hands--there. . . . Say! Naab, d--n you, her wrists are black an'
blue!"
"Look out! Your gun!" yelled Snap.
With a swift movement Mescal snatched the man's Colt from its holster and
was raising it when he grasped her arm. She winced and dropped the
weapon.
"You little Indian devil!" exclaimed the rustler, in a rapt admiration.
"Sorry to hurt you, an' more'n sorry to spoil your aim. Thet wasn't kind
to throw my own gun on me, jest after I'd played the gentleman, now, was
it?"
"I didn't--intend--to shoot--you," panted Mescal.
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