The "Wild West" Collection. William MacLeod Raine
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her.
"Last night isn't to-night."
He hesitated. Should he rush her defenses, bury her protests in kisses? Or should he talk her out of this harsh mood? Last night she had been his. There were moments during the day when she had responded to him as a musical instrument does to skilled fingers. But for the moment his power over her was gone. And he was impatient of delay.
"What's the matter with you?" he asked roughly.
"We'll start at once."
"No."
"Yes."
Frightened though she was, her gaze held steadily to his. It was the same instinct in her that makes one look a dangerous wild beast straight in the eye.
"What's got into you?" he demanded sullenly.
"I'm going home."
"After a while."
"Now."
"I reckon not just yet. It's my say-so."
"Don't you dare stop me."
The passion in him warred with prudence. He temporized. "Why, honey! I'm the man that loves you."
She would not see his outstretched hands.
"Then saddle my horse."
"By God, no! You're going to listen to me."
His anger ripped out unexpectedly, even to him. Whatever fear she felt, the girl crushed down. He must not know her heart was drowned in terror.
"I'll listen after we've started."
He cursed her fickleness. "What's ailin' you, girl? I ain't a man to be put off this way."
"Don't forget you're in Arizona," she warned.
He understood what she meant. In the ranch country no man could with impunity insult a woman.
Standing defiantly before him, her pliant form very straight, the underlying blood beating softly under the golden brown of her cheeks, one of the thick braids of her heavy, blue-black hair falling across the breast that rose and fell a little fast, she was no less than a challenge of Nature to him. He looked into a mobile face as daring and as passionate as his own, warm with the life of innocent youth, and the dark blood mantled his face.
"Saddle the horses," she commanded.
"When I get good and ready."
"Now."
"No, ma'am. We're going to have a talk first."
She walked across to the place where her pony grazed, slipped on the bridle, and brought the animal back to the saddle. Norris watched her fitting the blankets and tightening the cinch without a word, his face growing blacker every moment. Before she could start he strode forward and caught the rein.
"I've got something to say to you," he told her rudely. "You're not going now. So that's all about it."
Her lips tightened. "Let go of my horse."
"We'll talk first."
"Do you think you can force me to stay here?"
"You're going to hear what I've got to say."
"You bully!"
"I'll tell what I know--Miss Hold-up."
"Tell it!" she cried.
He laughed harshly, his narrowed eyes watching her closely. "If you throw me down now, I'll ce'tainly tell it. Be reasonable, girl."
"Let go my rein!"
"I've had enough of this. Tumble off that horse, or I'll pull you off."
Her dark eyes flashed scorn of him. "You coward! Do you think I'm afraid of you? Stand back!"
The man looked long at her, his teeth set; then caught at her strong little wrist. With a quick wrench she freed it, her eyes glowing like live coals.
"You dare!" she panted.
Her quirt rose and fell, the lash burning his wrist like a band of fire. With a furious oath he dropped his hand from the rein. Like a flash she was off, had dug her heels home, and was galloping into the moonlight recklessly as fast as she could send forward her pony. Stark terror had her by the throat. The fear of him flooded her whole being. Not till the drumming hoofs had carried her far did other emotions move her.
She was furious with him, and with herself for having been imposed upon by him. His beauty, his grace, his debonair manner--they were all hateful to her now. She had thought him a god among men, and he was of common clay. It was her vanity that was wounded, not her heart. She scourged herself because she had been so easily deceived, because she had let herself become a victim of his good looks and his impudence. For that she had let him kiss her--yes, and had returned his kiss--she was heartily contemptuous of herself. Always she had held herself with an instinctive pride, but in her passion of abandonment the tears confessed now that this pride had been humbled to the dust.
This gusty weather of the spirit, now of chastened pride and now of bitter anger, carried her even through the group of live-oaks which looked down upon the silent houses of the ranch, lying in a sea of splendid moon-beat. She was so much less confident of herself than usual that she made up her mind to tell her father the whole story of the hold-up and of what this man had threatened.
This resolution comforted her, and it was with something approaching calmness that she rode past the corral fence and swung from the saddle in front of the house.
CHAPTER X
JACK GOES TO THE HEAD OF THE CLASS
She trailed the bridle reins, went up the porch steps, and drew off her gauntlets. Her hand was outstretched to open the door when her gaze fell upon a large bill tacked to the wall. Swiftly she read it through, and, having read it, remained in suspended motion. For the first time she fully realized the danger and the penalty that confronted her.
ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS Will Be Paid By Thomas L. Morse
For the arrest and conviction of each of the men who were implicated in the robbery of the Fort Allison stage on April twenty-seventh last. A further reward of $1000 will be paid for the recovery of the bullion stolen.
This was what she read, and her eye was running over it a second time when she heard the jingle of a spur approaching.
"We're red-hot after them, you see, Miss Lee," a mocking voice drawled. "If you want to round up a thousand plunks, all you've got to do is to tell me who Mr. Hold-up is."
He laughed quietly, as if it were a joke, but the girl answered with a flush. "Is that all?"
"That's all."
"If I knew, do you suppose I would tell for five thousand--or ten thousand?"
For some reason this seemed to give him sardonic amusement. "No, I don't suppose you would."
"You'll have to catch him yourself if you want him. I'm not in that business, Mr. Flatray."
"I am. Sorry you don't like the business, Miss Lee." He added dryly: "But then you always were hard to please. You weren't satisfied when I was a rustler."
Her eyes swept him with a look, whether of reproach or contempt he was not sure. But the hard derision of his gaze did not soften. Mentally as well as physically he was a product of the sun and the wind, as tough and unyielding as a greasewood sapling. For a friend he would go the limit, and he could not forgive her that she had distrusted him.
"But mebbe you'd prefer it if I was rustling stages," he went on, looking straight at her.
"What do you mean?" she asked breathlessly.
"I want to have a talk with you."
"What about?"
"Suppose we step around to the side of the house. We'll be freer from interruption there."
He led the way, taking her consent for granted. With him