The outburst came out of nowhere and curdled what was left of Hagar's good humor. Lot interceded before she could speak, which was both welcome and painfully unnerving. He should've known by now that nothing good came of getting in the way of Mustang's temper. Surely her latest spectacle had proved it.
Lot called it amusing: that was his prerogative as the man who held Mustang's leash. There could be little doubt, in Hagar's mind, that the girl had done more ill than good.
"Reckon I'd best stay away from Mustang's everything," she mused aloud, the quip meant for Lot but her eyes tracking Mustang's grimaces. A gazelle in the savannah would've done the same when spying a lion in the tall grass. "Don't figure I've heard anyone call wanting what I'm selling 'bein' smitten,' but I guess if the glove fits…" She sighed. "If it's business she wants, that's one thing. Mustang—and trust me, I can't believe I'm saying this either—is right about the other. Can't have folks thinking every pair of tits in this place is up for grabbing." And Hope's safety was sacrosanct, whatever else was paid in tithe.
"Now I'm gonna pour you one more drink and you and I," she said to Mustang, "are gon' call it a truce, 'cause I don't like bein' on the wrong end of your ire any more than I like seein' you act like a damn she-dog. Puts our man here to shame when he's just sitting idly by."