She flashed her tempting glance up into the man's face, and Brown
stamped his feet nervously, endeavoring to appear stern.
"C-c-could n't h-hardly do it, m-m-miss. It 's t-too blame dirty
d-d-down below fer y-your sort. B-b-besides, my p-pardner ain't yere,
an' he m-m-might not l-like it."
"You haf de pardner? Who vas de pardner?"
"H-h-his name's H-H-Hicks."
She clasped her hands in an ecstasy of unrestrained delight.
"Beell Heeks? Oh, señor, I know Beell Heeks. He vas ver' nice fellow,
too--but no so pretty like you; he old man an' swear--Holy Mother, how
he swear! He tol' me once come out any time an' see hees mine. I not
know vere it vas before. Maybe de angels show me. You vas vat Beell
call Stutter Brown, I tink maybe? Ah, now it be all right, señor.
Bueno!"
She laid her gauntleted hand softly on the rough sleeve of his woollen
shirt, her black, appealing eyes flashing suddenly up into his troubled
face.
"I moost laugh, señor; such a brav' Americano 'fraid of de girl. Why
not you shoot me?"
"A-a-afraid nothin'," and Stutter's freckled face became instantly as
rosy as his admired hair, "b-but I t-tell ye, miss, it's a-a-all d-dirt
down th-there, an' not f-f-fit fer no lady ter t-t-traipse round in."
The temptress, never once doubting her power, smiled most bewitchingly,
her hands eloquent.
"You vas good boy, just like I tink; I wear dis ol' coat--see; an' den
I turn up de skirt, so. I no 'fraid de dirt. Now, vat you say, señor?
Bueno?"
Thus speaking, she seized upon the discarded and somewhat disreputable
garment, flung it carelessly about her shapely shoulders, shrugging
them coquettishly, her great eyes shyly uplifting to his relenting
face, and began swiftly to fasten up her already short dress in
disregard of the exposure of trim ankles. The agitated Mr. Brown
coughed, his uneasy glances straying down the open shaft. He would
gladly, and with extreme promptness, have shoved the cold muzzle of his
Colt beneath the nose of any man at such moment of trial; but this
young girl, with a glance and a laugh, had totally disarmed him.
Disturbed conscience, a feeling akin to disloyalty, pricked him, but
the temptation left him powerless to resist--those black eyes held him
already captive; and yet in this moment of wavering indecision, that
teasing hand once again rested lightly upon his shirt-sleeve.
"Please do dat, señor," the voice low and pleading. "It vas not ver'
mooch just to let a girl see your leetle mine. What harm, señor? But
maybe it's so because you no like me?"