The little man's face worked strangely, and his eyes glowed.
"If you hadn't come when you did, I would have earned my keep, and Alva
Dale would be where he wouldn't bother Miss Bransford any more," he
said.
Sanderson straightened. "You'd have shot him, you mean?"
Owen did not speak, merely nodding his head.
Sanderson smiled. "Then I'm sort of sorry come when I did. But do you
think shootin' Dale would have ended it?"
"No; Dale has friends." Owen leaned toward Sanderson, his face working
with passion. "I hate Dale," he said hoarsely. "I hate him worse than
I hate any snake that I ever saw. I hadn't been here two days when he
sneered at me and called me a freak. I'll kill him--some day. Your
coming has merely delayed the time. But before he dies I want to see
him beaten at this game he's tryin' to work on Miss Bransford. And
I'll kill any man that tries to give Miss Bransford the worst of it.
"You've got a fight on your hands. I know Dale and his gang, and
they'll make things mighty interesting for you and Miss Bransford.
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