She had
said that she was not afraid of him--he believed her; her actions
showed it. He said nothing until after her grandfather had vanished
and his step was no longer heard, and then when she turned to him he
said shortly:
"So your name's Betty. Betty what?"
"Clayton."
"An' your grandpap?"
"Malcolm Clayton."
"Who's Bob?"
"My brother."
"Any more Claytons around here?" he sneered.
"No."
"Well," he said with truculent insolence; "what in Sam Hill are you-all
doin' at the Lazy Y, anyway?"
"I am coming to that presently," she returned, unruffled.
"Goin' to work your jaw again, I reckon?" he taunted.
The hard calm came again into her face as she looked at him, though
behind it was that subtle quality that hinted of her possession of
advantage. Her manner made plain to him that she held some mysterious
power over him, a power which she valued, even enjoyed, and he was
nettled, baffled, and afflicted with a deep rage against her because of
it. Dealing with a man he would have known what to do, but he felt
strangely impotent in the presence of this girl, for she was not
disturbed over his insults, and her quiet, direct glances affected him
with a queer sensation of guilt, even embarrassed him.
"Well?" he prompted, after a silence.
"I am going to tell you about your father," she said.
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