"Naab, if this's your Mormon kind of wife--excuse me! Though I ain't
denyin' she's the sassiest an' sweetest little cat I ever seen!"
"We Mormons don't talk about our women or hear any talk," returned Snap,
a dancing fury in his pale eyes. "You're from Nebraska?"
"Yep, jest a plain Nebraska rustler, cattle-thief, an' all round no-good
customer, though I ain't taken to houndin' women yet."
For answer Snap Naab's right hand slowly curved upward before him and
stopped taut and inflexible, while his strange eyes seemed to shoot
sparks.
"See here, Naab, why do you want to throw a gun on me?" asked the
rustler, coolly. "Haven't you shot enough of your friends yet? I reckon
I've no right to interfere in your affairs. I was only protestin'
friendly like, for the little lady. She's game, an' she's called your
hand. An' it's not a straight hand. Thet's all, an' d--n if I care
whether you are a Mormon or not. I'll bet a hoss Holderness will back me
up."
"Snap, he's right," put in Holderness, smoothly. "You needn't be so
touchy about Mescal. She's showed what little use she's got for you. If
you must rope her around like you do a mustang, be easy about it.
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