As the Indian departed, Sallie turned to study the man in buckskin. Upon closer scrutiny of her rescuer, she wondered if she was truly rescued or in greater danger. This man certainly looked tough. He was lean and rangy like his mustang. He had the carriage and appearance of a man not to be taken lightly. There was several days' growth of beard on his face and a long, shaggy, iron-gray mustache drooping from his upper lip. Dark, piercing eyes, now focused on the departing Indian, peered out beneath heavy brows. Were he cleaned up, she decided, he might've been somewhat handsome, in a rugged sort of way. The man on the grulla mustang scanned the horizon, slowly lowered his rifle, and tucked it into a scabbard on the side of his saddle.
She took a deep breath and placed her hands on her hips. "What did he say?" Sallie demanded, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.
He shifted his piercing gaze to her, taking in her somewhat disheveled appearance. In the struggle, some of her light brown hair with its streaks of gray had escaped the confines of the bun at the base of her neck. Her dress had a tear down one arm and another on the skirt. The dark-patterned material was smudged in places with dust and grime. As he silently studied her from head to foot, she tried to hide how uncomfortable he made her feel.
Again, she demanded, "What did he say?"
He looked her directly in the eyes. "Said you were too much trouble, and I was welcome to you," he drawled in a deep baritone voice.
