you are, brother, come in,' said Blondie, 'come in, come
in here; to give you back what's yours is only the right
thing to do. How many bushels did we steal? Ten? Sure
it wasn't more than ten? . . . That's right, about fifteen,
eh? Or was it twenty, perhaps? . . . Try and remember,
friend. . . . Of course you're a poor man, aren't you, and
you've a lot of kids to raise. . . . Yes, twenty it was. All
right, now! It's not ten or fifteen or twenty I'm going to
give you. You're going to count for yourself. . . . One,
two, three . . . and when you've had enough you just tell
me and I'll stop.' And Blondie pulled out his sword and
beat him till he cried for mercy."

War Paint rocked in her saddle, convulsed with mirth.
Camilla, unable to control herself, blurted out:

"The beast! His heart's rotten to the core! No wonder
I loathe him!"

At once War Paint's expression changed.

"What the hell is it to you!" she scowled. Camilla,
frightened, spurred her horse forward. War Paint did like-
wise and, as she trotted past Camilla, suddenly she
reached out, seized the other's hair and pulled with all
her might. Camilla's horse shied; Camilla, trying to brush
her hair back from over her eyes, abandoned the reins.
She hesitated, lost her balance and fell in the road, striking
her forehead against the stones.