Saxon, hurt as a prideful woman can be hurt by cavalier
treatment, was tempted to cry out the name and prowess of her
new-found protector. And then came fear. This was a big man, and
Billy was only a boy. That was the way he affected her. She
remembered her first impression of his hands and glanced quickly
at the hands of the man beside her. They seemed twice as large as
Billy's, and the mats of hair seemed to advertise a terrible
strength. No, Billy could not fight this big brute. He must not.
And then to Saxon came a wicked little hope that by the
mysterious and unthinkable ability that prizefighters possessed,
Billy might be able to whip this bully and rid her of him. With
the next glance doubt came again, for her eye dwelt on the
blacksmith's broad shoulders, the cloth of the coat
muscle-wrinkled and the sleeves bulging above the biceps.

"If you lay a hand on anybody I'm going with again---" she began.

"Why, they'll get hurt, of course," Long grinned. "And they'll
deserve it, too. Any rummy that comes between a fellow an' his
girl ought to get hurt."

"But I'm not your girl, and all your saying so doesn't make it
so."

"That's right, get mad," he approved. "I like you for that, too.
You've got spunk an' fight. I like to see it. It's what a man
needs in his wife--and not these fat cows of women. They're the
dead ones. Now you're a live one, all wool, a yard long and a
yard wide."