"With the money you took from the Ayr bank?" she flashed.

"I might drive off some of your cows and sell them," he
countered, promptly. "About how much will they hold me up for a
machine like this?"

"This is only a runabout. You can get one for twelve or fourteen
hundred dollars of anybody's money."

"Of yours?" he laughed.

"I haven't that much with me. If you'll come over and hold up the
ranch perhaps we might raise it among us," she jeered.

His mirth was genuine. "But right now I couldn't get more than
how much off y'u?"

"Sixty-three dollars is all I have with me, and I couldn't give
you more--NOT EVEN IF YOU PUT RED HOT IRONS BETWEEN MY FINGERS."
She gave it to him straight, her blue eyes fixed steadily on him.

Yet she was not prepared for the effect of her words. The last
thing she had expected was to see the blood wash out of his
bronzed face, to see his sensitive nostrils twitch with pain. He
made her feel as if she had insulted him, as if she had been
needlessly cruel. And because of it she hardened her heart. Why
should she spare him the mention of it? He had not hesitated at
the shameless deed itself. Why should she shrink before that
wounded look that leaped to his fine eyes in that flash of time
before he hardened them to steel?