Moore was a much younger man, his face roughened, and tanned, to almost
the colour of mahogany, yet somehow retaining a youthful look. He was
not unprepossessing in a bold, daring way; a fellow who would seek
adventure, and meet danger with a laugh. He turned as she looked at
him, and grinned back at her, pointing humorously to a badly
discoloured eye.
"Friend o' yours gave me that," he admitted, quite as a matter of
course. "Did a good job, too."
"A friend of mine?" in surprise.
"Sure; you're a friend o' Jim Westcott, ain't yer? Lacy said so, and
Jim's the laddy-buck who whaled me."
"Mr. Westcott! When?"
"Last night. You see it was this way. I caught him hanging round the
office at La Rosita, an' we had a fight. I don't just know what I did
to him, but that's part o' what he did to me. I never knowed much
about him afore, but he's sure some scrapper; an' I had a knife in my
fist, too."
"Then--then," her breath choking her, "he got away?"
Moore laughed, no evidence of animosity in his actions.
"I reckon so, miss.
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