"That's fine talk for you, ain't it?
You'd better listen to what I tell you." He reached out a hand and touched her arm.
With one movement, of sheer instinct, with a primal half-snarl, she swung the revolver out of the scabbard behind her, flung it almost into his face.

He cowered, but not soon enough.

The shot struck him.

He dropped, tried to escape.

She heard him scuffling on the sand, fired again and missed--fired yet again and heard him cry out, gasping, begging for mercy.
The range was too short for her to hear the impact of the bullets; she did not know she had struck him with two shots, the second of which had broken his leg and left him disabled.