Half-Confidences

Whatever Stutter Brown may secretly have thought concerning this new
arrangement of his affairs, he indulged in no outward manifestations.
Not greatly gifted in speech, he was nevertheless sufficiently prompt
in action. The swift, nervous orders of the impulsive Mexican dancer
had sufficiently impressed him with one controlling idea, that
something decidedly serious was in the air; and, as she flitted across
the room, looking not unlike a red bird, he watched her make directly
toward a man who was leaning negligently back in a chair against the
farther wall. For a moment he continued to gaze through the obscuring
haze of tobacco smoke, uncertain as to the other's identity, his eyes
growing angry, his square jaw set firm.

"W-who is the f-f-feller?" he questioned gruffly. "Wh-what 's she
m-mean l-leavin' me to go over th-thar ter h-him?"

Beth Norvell glanced up frankly into his puzzled face.

"She has gone to keep him away from me," she explained quietly. "His
name is Farnham."

Brown's right hand swung back to his belt, his teeth gripped like those
of a fighting dog.

"Hell!" he ejaculated, forgetting to stutter. "Is that him? Biff
Farnham? An' he 's after you is he, the damned Mormon?"

She nodded, her cheeks growing rosy from embarrassment. Brown cast a
quick, comprehensive glance from the face of the woman to where the man
was now leaning lazily against the wall.

"All r-right, little g-girl," he said slowly, and with grave
deliberation. "I-I reckon I n-never went b-back on any p-pard yet.
B-blamed if y-y-you hate thet c-cuss any worse th-than I do. Y-you
bet, I 'll take you out o' h-h-here safe 'nough."