He laughed grimly, as he retorted with brutal meaning, “You do not seem to understand.  You will be glad enough to keep the story a secret—­when the time comes to go.”

Bewildered by fear and shame, the girl could only stammer, “How could you—­oh how could you!  Why, why—­”

“Why!” he echoed.  Then, as he went a step toward her, he exclaimed, with reckless profanity, “Ask the God who made me what I am, why I want you!  Ask the God who made you so beautiful, why!”

He moved another step toward her, his face flushed with the insane passion that mastered him, his eyes burning with the reckless light of one past counting the cost; and the girl, seeing, sprang to her feet, in terror.  Wheeling suddenly, she ran into the cabin, thinking to shut and bar the door.  She reached the door, and swung it shut, but the bar was gone.  While he was in the cabin he had placed it out of her reach.  Putting his shoulder to the door, the man easily forced it open against her lighter weight.  As he crossed the threshold, she sprang to the farthest corner of the little room, and cowered, trembling—­too shaken with horror to cry out.  A moment he paused; then started toward her.

At that instant, the convict burst through the underbrush into the little opening.

Hearing the sound, Rutlidge wheeled and sprang to the open door.

The convict was breathing heavily from the exertion of a hard run.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Rutlidge, sharply.  “What’s the matter?”

“Some one is following my trail down from Granite Peak.”

“Well, what are you carrying that rifle for?” said Rutlidge, harshly, with an oath.

“There may be others near enough to hear a shot,” answered the convict.  “Besides, Mr. Rutlidge, this is your part of the game—­not mine.  I did not agree to commit murder for you.”

“Where did you see him?”

“A half mile beyond the head of the gulch, where we turn off to go to the supply point.”

Rutlidge, rifle in hand, stepped from the house.  “You stay here and take care of the girl—­and see that she doesn’t scream.”  With the last word he set out at a run.

The convict sprang into the cabin, where Sibyl still crouched in the corner.  The man’s voice was imploring as he said, “Miss Andres, Miss Andres, what is the matter?  Did he touch you?  Tell me, did he harm you?”

Sobbing, the girl held out her hands, and he lifted her to her feet.  “You—­you came—­just in time, Mr. Marston.”

An instant he stood there, then muttering something under his breath, he turned, caught up his rifle, and started toward the door.

But, as he reached the threshold, she cried out, “Mr. Marston, don’t, don’t leave me again.”

The convict stopped, hesitated, then he said solemnly “Miss Andres, can you pray?  I know you can.  You are a good girl.  If God can hear a prayer he will surely hear you.  Come with me.  Come—­and pray girl—­pray for me.”