The Sheriff's Son
Her gypsy eyes stabbed him. She was furiously angry. He attempted to explain. "Now, listen here, Beulah. Let's be reasonable."
"Are you going up or down?" she demanded. "I'm going the other way. Take one road or the other, you—you scandalmonger."
Never a patient man, he too gave rein to his anger. "Since you want to know, I'm going down—to Battle Butte, where I 'll likely meet yore friend Beaudry and settle an account or two with him. I reckon before I git through with him he 'll yell something besides Cornell."
The girl laughed scornfully. "Last time I saw him he had just beaten a dozen or so of you. How many friends are you going to take along this trip?"
Already her horse was taking the trail. She called the insult down to him over her shoulder.
But before she had gone a half-mile her eyes were blind with tears. Why did she get so angry? Why did she say such things? Other girls were ladylike and soft-spoken. Was there a streak of commonness in her that made possible such a scene as she had just gone through? In her heart she longed to be a lady—gentle, refined, sweet of spirit. Instead of which she was a bad-tempered tomboy. "Miss Spitfire" her
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