She was no longer a child, but a long-rider who could shoot with
the best.
One glance she cast about the room to drink in the amazement of the
gang, and then her father broke in rather hoarsely: "Sit down, girl.
Sit down and be one of us. One of us you are by your own choice from
this day on. You're neither man nor woman, but a long-rider with every
man's hand against you. You've done with any hope of a home or of
friends. You're one of us. Poor Jack--my girl!"
"Poor?" she returned. "Not while I can make a quick draw and shoot
straight."
And then she swept the circle of eyes, daring them to take her boast
lightly, but they knew her too well, and were all solemnly silent. At
this she relented somewhat, and went directly to Pierre, flushing
from throat to hair. She held out her hand.
"Will you shake and call it square?"
"I sure will," nodded Pierre.
"And we're pals--you and me, like the rest of 'em?"
"We are."
She took the place beside him.
As the whisky went round after round the two seemed shut away from the
others; they were younger, less marked by life; they listened while
the others talked, and now and then exchanged glances of interest
or aversion.
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