"It wouldn't be fun to be set afoot out here; now, would
it? How would you like the job of walking home, eh?"
"I don't think I'd enjoy it much," Beatrice said, showing her one
dimple conspicuously. "I'd rather ride."
"Throw up your hands!" growled a voice from somewhere.
Keith wheeled toward the sound, and a bullet spatted into the yellow
clay, two inches from the toe of his boot. Also, a rifle cracked
sharply. He took the hint, and put his hands immediately on a level with
his hat crown.
"No use," he called out ruefully. "I haven't anything to return the
compliment with."
"Well, I've got t' have the papers fur that, mister," retorted the
voice, and a man appeared from the shelter of a rock and came slowly
down to them--a man, long-legged and lank, with haggard, unshaven face
and eyes that had hunger and dogged endurance looking out. He picked his
way carefully with his feet, his eyes and the rifle fixed unswervingly
at the two. Beatrice was too astonished to make a sound.
"What sort of a hold-up do you call this?" demanded Keith hotly, his
hands itching to be down and busy. "We don't carry rolls of money around
in the hills, you fool!"
"Oh, damn your money!" the man said roughly. "I've got money t' burn. I
want t' trade horses with yuh. That roan, there, looks like a stayer.
I'll take him.
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