Part 18 (1/2)
”Oh!” she breathed. Her hand darted for the pocket in her skirt, but I sprang between the two. Forgetful of my revolver, remembering only what I had witnessed--a woman struck by a man--with a blow I sent him reeling backward.
He recovered; every vestige of color had left his face, except for the spot where I had landed; his hat had sprung aside from the shock--his gray eyes, contrasted with his black hair, fastened upon my eyes almost deliberately and his upper lip lifted over set white teeth. With lightning movement he thrust the fingers of his right hand into his waistcoat pocket.
I heard a rush of feet, a clamor of voices; and all the while, which seemed interminable, I was tugging, awkward with deadly peril, at my revolver. His fingers had whipped free of the pocket, I glimpsed as with second sight (for my eyes were held strongly by his) the twin little black muzzles of a derringer concealed in his palm; a spasm of fear pinched me; they spurted, with ringing report, but just at the instant a flanneled arm knocked his arm up, the ball had sped ceiling-ward and the teamster of the gaming table stood against him, revolver barrel boring into his very stomach.
”Stand pat, Mister. I call you.”
In a trice all entry of any unpleasant emotion vanished from my antagonist's handsome face, leaving it olive tinted, cameo, inert. He steadied a little, and smiled, surveying the teamster's visage, close to his.
”You have me covered, sir. My hand is in the discard.” He composedly tucked the derringer into his waistcoat pocket again. ”That gentleman struck me; he was about to draw on me, and by rights I might have killed him. My apologies for this little disturbance.”
He bestowed a challenging look upon me, a hard unforgiving look upon the lady; with a bow he turned for his hat, and stepping swiftly went back to his table.
Now in the reaction I fought desperately against a trembling of the knees; there were congratulations, a hubbub of voices a.s.sailing me--and the arm of the teamster through mine and his bluff invitation:
”Come and have a drink.”
”But you'll return. You must. I want to speak with you.”
It was My Lady, pleading earnestly. I still could scarcely utter a word; my brain was in a smother. My new friend moved me away from her. He answered for me.
”Not until we've had a little confab, lady. We've got matters of importance jest at present.”
I saw her bite her lips, as she helplessly flushed; her blue eyes implored me, but I had no will of my own and I certainly owed a measure of courtesy to this man who had saved my life.
CHAPTER IX
I ACCEPT AN OFFER
We found a small table, one of the several devoted to refreshments for the dancers, in a corner and unoccupied. The affair upon the floor was apparently past history--if it merited even that distinction. The place had resumed its program of dancing, playing and drinking as though after all a pistol shot was of no great moment in the Big Tent.
”You had a narrow shave,” my friend remarked as we seated ourselves--I with a sigh of grat.i.tude for the opportunity. ”If you can't draw quicker you'd better keep your hands in your pockets. Let's have a dose of t'rant'lar juice to set you up.” Whereupon he ordered whiskey from a waiter.
”But I couldn't stand by and see him strike a woman,” I defended.
”Wall, fists mean guns, in these diggin's. Where you from?”
”Albany, New York State.”
”I sized you up as a pilgrim. You haven't been long in camp, either, have you?”
”No. But plenty long enough,” I miserably replied.
”Long enough to be plucked, eh?”
We had drunk the whiskey. Under its warming influence my tongue loosened.
Moreover there was something strong and kindly in the hearty voice and the rough face of this rudely clad plainsman, black bearded to the piercing black eyes.