She came down against him, and he tried to break her fall. He grabbed her by the shoulders and went down on one knee, taking her weight so that some of the wind was driven out of him. It made him a little sick, and he let go of her. He got up slowly, and she was already on her feet, and he stood facing her. He wiped the blood from his cheek.

``I ought to'' -- he said. He was shaking with anger, his breath coming in long, painful gasps. ``That quirt -- I ought to use it on you, where it would do the most good. If you were a man'' --

``She isn't, mister.''

The voice came from behind him, and Wilson turned. The fire had gone down, and the man was only a shadow against the trees. But a moment later he brought his horse forward into the light, and Wilson had a good look at him. He was tall and dark-skinned, a half-breed, Wilson thought. And he was handsome, despite the long thin scar that slanted across his cheek.

``She's not a man, mister,'' he said. ``I am. If you've got any ideas.'' He raised the Winchester and pointed it at Wilson's chest.

``Put the rifle down, Joseph,'' the girl said. She seemed irritated. ``I thought I told you to stay home.''

The half-breed eased the Winchester down and rested it across his lap. The scar looked pure white in the half darkness; his eyes were black and deep-set, and expressionless. ``You shouldn't be riding up here after dark, Judith,'' he said quietly. ``I can take care of this. It's no job for you.''