Her brother nodded toward Curly and Pesky.  “They found me outside and got the drop on me.”

“You were here looking for me?”

“Yes.  Just got back from Noches.  Dad is still there.  He don’t know.”

“But—­what are they going to do with you?”

“What would you suggest, Miss Phyllis?” a voice behind her gibed.

The speaker was Weaver.  He filled the doorway of the dining room triumphantly.  She had had no fears for herself; he would see if she had none for her brother.

The boy whirled on the ranchman like a tiger whelp.  “I don’t care what you do.  Go ahead and do your worst.”

Weaver looked him over negligently, much as he might watch a struggling calf.  To him the boy was not an enemy—­merely a tool which he could use for his own ends.  Phyllis, watching anxiously the hard, expressionless face, felt that it was cruel as fate.  She knew that somehow she would be made to suffer through her love for her brother.

“You daren’t touch him.  He’s done nothing,” she cried.

“He shot at one of my riders.  I can’t have dangerous characters around.  I’m a peaceable man, me,” grinned Buck.

“You didn’t, Phil,” his sister reproached.

“Sure I did.  He tried to take my gun from me,” the boy explained hotly.

“Take him out to the bunk house, boys.  I’ll attend to him later,” nodded Buck, turning away indifferently.

Stung to fury by the cavalier manner of his enemy, the boy leaped at him like a wild cat.  Weaver whirled round again, caught him by the shoulder with his great hand, and shook him as if he had been a puppy.  When he dropped him, he nodded again to his men, who dragged out the struggling boy.

Phyllis stood straight as an arrow, but white to the lips.  “What are you going to do to him?” she asked.

“How would a good chapping do, to start with?  That is always good for an unlicked cub.”

“Don’t!” she implored.

“But, my dear, why not—­since it’s for his good?”

Passion unleashed leaped from her.  “You coward!”

He shrugged his shoulders.  “I’m right desolated to have your bad opinion.  But you say it almost as if you did hate me.  That’s a compliment, you know.  You didn’t hate the coyote, you mentioned.”

Her eyes flamed.  “Hate you!  If wishes could kill, you would be a thousand times dead!”

“You disappoint me, my dear.  I expected more than wishes from you.  There’s a loaded revolver in that table drawer.  It’s yours, any time you want it,” he derided.

“Don’t tempt me!” she cried wildly.  “If you lay a hand on Phil, I’ll use it—­I surely will.”

His eyes shone with delight.  “I wonder.  By Jove, I’ve a mind to flog the colt and see.  I’ll do it.”

The passion sank in her as suddenly as it had risen.  “No—­you mustn’t!  You don’t know him—­or us.  We are from the South.”

“That settles it.  I will,” he exulted.  “You have called me a coward.  Would a coward do this, and defy your whole crew to its revenge?”