"What are you doin' here, Dave Roush?" the girl demanded. "Are you
crazy?"

"I'm here because you are, 'Lindy Clanton," he answered promptly. "That's
a right good reason, ain't it?"

The pink splashed into her cheeks like spilled wine.

"You'd better go. If dad saw you--"

He laughed hardily. "There'd be one less Roush--or one less Clanton," he
finished for her.

Dave Roush was a large, well-shouldered man, impressive in spite of his
homespun. If he carried himself with a swagger there was no lack of
boldness in him to back it. His long hair was straight and black and
coarse, a derivative from the Indian strain in his blood.

"Git my note?" he asked.

She nodded sullenly.

'Lindy had met Dave Roush at a dance up on Lonesome where she had no
business to be. At the time she had been visiting a distant cousin in a
cove adjacent to that creek. Some craving for adventure, some instinct of
defiance, had taken her to the frolic where she knew the Roush clan would
be in force. From the first sight of her Dave had wooed her with a
careless bravado that piqued her pride and intrigued her interest. The
girl's imagination translated in terms of romance his insolence and
audacity. Into her starved existence he brought color and emotion.