Tharon, crouched a bit, her feet apart, her elbows crooked above her hips, her fingers curled on her gun-butts with nice precision, wet her own pale lips and continued:
"An' who put you in office? That laugh of an office! Who? Why, Courtrey--th' biggest thief, th' coldest murderer in th' country! _He_ put you there! An' what are you good for? My daddy was shot--_in th' back_--an' did you make one inquiry into the murder? Come out to Last's, even to find a clew? Not you! There's only one sheriff in this Valley--one bit o' law that will avenge his death--an' that's _me_! Now, you two fine gentlemen--I'm goin'. There's my hand! I throw th' cards on th' table! Shoot me in the back if you've got th' nerve. Come out in th' open an' fight! _But you better be quick about it!_"
With that she backed slowly along the porch, keeping them in view.
"Get away behind me," she called. There was a path opened instantly, the sound of shuffling feet. Along the porch she went, step by step, stopping every moment or so to keep close hold on her advantage, every nerve strained, every one of her faculties at the top of its power.
She felt for the step with her foot, went down, backed through the crowd, brought them all in the range of the guns which she flashed out now and held upon them.
She was ashy pale, a flaming, vibrant thing. Not a man there but knew she was more dangerous at the moment than cool Jim Last had ever been, for she radiated hatred of her father's killer in every bitter glance. She had none for whom to be cautious. She was the last of her blood. She was efficient, and she knew it.
Courtrey knew it, and felt the sweat start on his skin.
As the girl backed clear there came into her vision a strange figure--the straight, trim figure of a man who stood stiffly at attention, where her imperious words had caught him.
He wore a uniform of semi-military style, leather leggings, a flannel shirt of butternut and a smart, tan, broad-brimmed hat.
He, too, came in the range of the travelling guns and waited their pleasure.
Tharon reached El Rey. She stuck her right-hand weapon in its holster, loosed the rein, flung it over the stallion's head, stepped around his shoulder and mounted deftly and swiftly from the wrong side. It was a pretty trick of horsemanship and showed up her adroitness. As El Rey rose on his hind feet, whirling, that unwavering muzzle whirled also, to keep in line. The king struck into his gait and his rider, facing backward, swung away down the narrow street. Until she was well out of range the tension held.