Whatever Stutter Brown may secretly have thought concerning this new
arrangement of his affairs, he indulged in no outward manifestations.
Not greatly gifted in speech, he was nevertheless sufficiently prompt
in action. The swift, nervous orders of the impulsive Mexican dancer
had sufficiently impressed him with one controlling idea, that
something decidedly serious was in the air; and, as she flitted across
the room, looking not unlike a red bird, he watched her make directly
toward a man who was leaning negligently back in a chair against the
farther wall. For a moment he continued to gaze through the obscuring
haze of tobacco smoke, uncertain as to the other's identity, his eyes
growing angry, his square jaw set firm.
"W-who is the f-f-feller?" he questioned gruffly. "Wh-what 's she
m-mean l-leavin' me to go over th-thar ter h-him?"
Beth Norvell glanced up frankly into his puzzled face.
"She has gone to keep him away from me," she explained quietly. "His
name is Farnham."
Brown's right hand swung back to his belt, his teeth gripped like those
of a fighting dog.
"Hell!" he ejaculated, forgetting to stutter. "Is that him? Biff
Farnham? An' he 's after you is he, the damned Mormon?"
She nodded, her cheeks growing rosy from embarrassment. Brown cast a
quick, comprehensive glance from the face of the woman to where the man
was now leaning lazily against the wall.
"All r-right, little g-girl," he said slowly, and with grave
deliberation. "I-I reckon I n-never went b-back on any p-pard yet.
B-blamed if y-y-you hate thet c-cuss any worse th-than I do. Y-you
bet, I 'll take you out o' h-h-here safe 'nough."
He drew her more closely against his side, completely shielding her
slender figure from observation by the intervention of his giant body,
and thus they passed out together into the gloomy but still riotous
street. A block or more down, under the glaring light of a noisy
saloon, the girl looked up questioningly into his boyish face.
"Are you Stutter Brown, of the 'Little Yankee'?" she asked doubtfully.
"I-I reckon you've c-c-called the t-turn, Miss."
She hesitated a moment, but there was something about this big, awkward
fellow, with his sober eyes and good-natured face, which gave her
confidence.
"Do--do you know a Mr. Ned Winston?"
He shook his head, the locks of red hair showing conspicuously under
the wide hat-brim.
"I r-reckon not. Leastwise, don't s-s-sorter seem to r-recall no such
n-name, Miss. Was the g-gent a f-friend o' your 'n?"
"Y-yes. He is a mining engineer, and, I have been told, is under
engagement at the 'Little Yankee.'"
Brown's eyes hardened, looking down into the upturned face, and his
hands clinched in sudden awakening suspicion.
"You d-did, hey?" he questioned sullenly. "Wh-who told you that r-rot?"
"Farnham."