The astounded road agent put a hand to his tingling face. Then, as she seemed about to give him a second blow, he ducked and stepped backward. “Pardon me,” he said, not without humor; “but I didn’t know I’d run up ag’inst the hind leg of a mule!” Other desperadoes came rushing up, and they surrounded her, asking questions. “It’s none o’ yer bizness who I am, er what I’m doin’ here!” she snapped. “But I’m Pizen Jane, of Cinnabar; and what my bizness is you’ll know ’fore you’re ready fer it, lemme tell ye! And if any o’ you cattle thinks he can make fun o’ me, er tries to git gay with me, he’ll mighty quick wish’t he’d gone to some school of good manners.” “You was with Buffalo Bill?” “What if I was; an’ what if I wasn’t?” “That was him that rid off on that hoss?” “Foller him and ask him, and then mebbe you’ll find out!” She folded her arms and looked about defiantly, not at all afraid of them, apparently; and she made a queer figure, as she stood there, thus surrounded, with the light of the rising moon revealing her gaunt form and homely features. The chase of the scout, to judge from the sounds, was of a lively character; there was a continual popping of rifles and revolvers, as the outlaws took snapshots at him, or at shadows which they mistook for him. “I reckon they ain’t goin’ to git him,” said Pizen Jane complacently, as she cocked an ear in the direction of the uproar. “Well, we’ve got you!” was the grim answer. “And a lot o’ good it will do ye! Now that you’ve got me, what ye goin’ to do with me? I ain’t got no money, and I’m too old and homely fer any o’ ye to want me fer a wife.” She had recovered her mental balance, if it had indeed been lost at all. Now she sat down on the ground very deliberately, and smoothed her tangled hair and her travel-stained dress. Some of the pursuing road agents began to come in, breathless and spent. They stared hard at her; and she snapped at them with vinegary answers when they asked questions. One of the men who soon returned from the pursuit was Snaky Pete. When her eyes lighted on him they burned with a fiercer fire than had been in them lately. She got up and strode toward him, her fingers outstretched as if she meant to tear his face. “So, it’s you, is it?” she cried. “Well, I might ’a’ knowed it was you, and I did partly guess it! You low-lived, knock-kneed, white-livered, flea-bitten, devil-hunted----” She stopped, gasping, unable to find words to express her detestation and hatred; but went on again: “Oh, you mis’rable scum of the earth! You pestiferous, walkin’ image of a man! I’ve found you, and now I settle with you!” She stopped, and slowly drew a revolver from the folds of her dress. In another moment she would have shot Snaky Pete dead, if one of his men had not knocked the weapon from her hand. She struggled with this man, shrieking, and tearing at him, frantically trying to regain her revolver.