“If he was that close you’d have sense enough to run, Steve.”

The snarl of Nash showed his teeth.

“Out with it.  The tenderfoot ain’t left his woman fur away.  Where’s he gone?  Who’s he gone to shoot in the back?  Where’s the hoss he started out to rustle?”

“Kind of peeved, Nash, eh?”

One step more he made, towering above her.

“I’ve done bein’ polite, Sally.  I’ve asked you a question.”

“And I’ve answered you:  I don’t know.”

“Sally, I’m patient; I don’t mean no wrong to you.  What you’ve been to me I’m goin’ to bust myself tryin’ to forget; but don’t lie to me now.”

Such a far greater woe kept up a throbbing ache in the hollow of her throat that now she laughed, laughed slowly, deliberately.  He leaned, caught her wrist in a crushing pressure.

“You demon; you she-devil!”

She whirled out of the bunk, the blanket caught about her like the toga of some ancient Roman girl; and as she moved she had swept up something heavy and bright from the floor.

All this, and still his grip was on her left arm.

“Drop your hand, Nash.”

With a falling of the heart, she knew that he did not fear her gun; instead, a light of pleasure gleamed in his eyes and his lower jaw thrust out.

She would never forget his face as he looked that moment.

“Will you tell me?”

“I’ll see you in hell first.”

By that wrist he drew her resistlessly toward him, and his other arm went about her and crushed her close; hate, shame, rage, love were in the contorted face above her.  She pressed the muzzle of her revolver against his side.

“You’re in beckoning distance of that hell, Steve!”

“You she-wolf—­shoot and be damned!  I’d live long enough to strangle you.”

“You know me, Steve; don’t be a fool.”

“Know you?  Nobody knows you.  And God Almighty, Sally, I love you worse’n ever; love the very way you hate me.  Come here!”

He jerked her closer still, leaned; and she remembered then that Anthony had never kissed her.  She said: 

“You’re safe; you know he can’t see you.”

He threw her from him and stood snarling like a dog growling for the bone it fears to touch because there may be poison in the taste—­a starving dog, and a bone full of toothsome marrow which has only to be crushed in order that it may be enjoyed.

“I’m wishin’ nothin’ more than that he could see me.”

“Then you’re a worse fool than I took you for, Steve.  You know he’d go through ten like you.”

“There ain’t no man has gone through me yet.”

“But he would.  You know it.  He’s not stronger, maybe not so strong.  But he was born to win, Steve; he’s like—­he’s like Drew, in a way.  He can’t fail.”

“If I wrung that throat of yours,” he said, “I know I couldn’t get out of you where he’s gone.”