"What have you got to tell me, gyurl? Out with it!"
But on the heels of his imperative demand came reassurance. A tide of color poured into her face, but her eyes met his quietly. They let him understand, more certainly than words, that all was well with his ewe lamb. Putting her gently to one side, he strode toward his enemy.
"What are you doing here, Buck Weaver?"
The cattleman swept the circle of lowering faces, and laughed contemptuously. "A man might think I wasn't welcome if he didn't know better."
"Oh, you're welcome--I reckon nobody on earth is more welcome right now," retorted Sanderson grimly. "We were starting right out after you, seh. But seeing you're here it saves trouble. Better 'light, you and your friend, both."
The declining sun flashed on three weapons that already covered the cattleman. He looked easily from one to another, without the least concern, and swung lightly from his horse.
"Much obliged. Glad to accept your hospitality. But about this young man here--he's not exactly a friend of mine--a mere pick-up acquaintance, in fact. You mustn't accept him on my say-so. Of course, you know I'm all right, but I can't guarantee him," Buck drawled, with magnificent effrontery.
Phyllis spoke up unexpectedly. "I can."
Keller looked at her gratefully. It was not that he cared so much for the certificate of character as for the friendly spirit that prompted it. "That's right kind of you," he nodded.
"We haven't heard yet what you are doing here, Buck Weaver," old Jim Sanderson said, holding the cattleman with a hard and hostile eye. "And after you've explained that, there are a few other things to make clear."
"Such as----" suggested the plainsman.
"Such as keeping my daughter a captive and insulting her while she was in your house," the father retorted promptly.
"I held her captive because it was my right. She admitted shooting me. Would you expect me to turn her loose, and thank her right politely for it? I want to tell you that some folks would be right grateful because I didn't send her to the penitentiary."
"You couldn't send her there. No jury in Arizona would convict--even if she were guilty," Tom Dixon broke out.
"That's a frozen fact about the Arizona jury," the cattleman agreed, with a swift, careless look at the boy. "Just the same, I had a license to hold her. About the insult--well, I've got nothing to say. Nothing except this, that I wouldn't be wearing these decorations"--he touched the scars on his face--"if I didn't agree with you that nobody but a sweep would have done it."