ques, only anger—the white anger of the Anglo-Saxon. He looked the personification of physical courage as he stood there, and at the moment Ignacio Bojarques feared his vengeance more than the law. Just for an instant his glance wavered, then he lowered the gun on a level with Ben's heart.
"You pull that trigger, you Mexican mongrel, and every mother's son of you will swing in the cottonwoods!"
Bojarques's mouth stretched in a grimace rather than a grin, and in a kind of desperation he took aim.
"Drop that gun!" The ringing command turned every head to the doorway.
A tall young man—a stranger in modish clothes—determined, alert, covered Ignacio Bojarques with a gun as businesslike as his own.
Nan sat down weakly upon the nearest bench.
"Bob!"
