She hesitated a fraction of a second.  In that moment she seemed to see that he was in earnest, and that it would be foolish to tamper with him.

“Stand away from that table; sit down yonder.”

Again she obeyed without a word.  Her eyes, to be sure, flickered here and there about the room, as though they sought some means of sending a warning to her friends, or finding some escape for herself.  Then her glance returned to Ronicky Doone.

“Well,” she said, as she settled in the chair.  “Well?”

A world of meaning in those two small words—­a world of dread controlled.  He merely stared at her thoughtfully.

“I hit the wrong trail, lady,” he said quietly.  “I was looking for somebody else.”

She started.  “You were after—­” She stopped.

“That’s right, I guess,” he admitted.

“How many of you are there?” she asked curiously, so curiously that she seemed to be forgetting the danger.  “Poor Carry Smith with a mob—­” She stopped suddenly again.  “What did you do to Harry Morgan?”

“I left him safe and quiet,” said Ronicky Doone.

The girl’s face hardened strangely.  “What you are, and what your game is I don’t know,” she said.  “But I’ll tell you this:  I’m letting you play as if you had all the cards in the deck.  But you haven’t.  I’ve got one ace that’ll take all your trumps.  Suppose I call once what’ll happen to you, pal?”

“You don’t dare call,” he said.

“Don’t dare me,” said the girl angrily.  “I hate a dare worse than anything in the world, almost.”  For a moment her green-blue eyes were pools of light flashing angrily at him.

Into the hand of Ronicky Doone, with that magic speed and grace for which his fame was growing so great in the mountain desert, came the long, glimmering body of the revolver, and, holding it at the hip, he threatened her.

She shrank back at that, gasping.  For there was an utter surety about this man’s handling of the weapon.  The heavy gun balanced and steadied in his slim fingers, as if it were no more than a feather’s weight.

“I’m talking straight, lady,” said Ronicky Doone.  “Sit down—­pronto!”

In the very act of obedience she straightened again.  “It’s bluff,” she said.  “I’m going through that door!” Straight for the door she went, and Ronicky Doone set his teeth.

“Go back!” he commanded.  He glided to the door and blocked her way, but the gun hung futile in his hand.

“It’s easy to pull a gun, eh?” said the girl, with something of a sneer.  “But it takes nerve to use it.  Let me through this door!”

“Not in a thousand years,” said Ronicky.

She laid her hand on the door and drew it back—­it struck his shoulder—­and Ronicky gave way with a groan and stood with his head bowed.  Inwardly he cursed himself.  Doubtless she was used to men who bullied her, as if she were another man of an inferior sort.  Doubtless she despised him for his weakness.  But, though he gritted his teeth, he could not make himself firm.  Those old lessons which sink into a man’s soul in the West came back to him and held him.  In the helpless rage which possessed him he wanted battle above all things in the world.  If half a dozen men had poured through the doorway he would have rejoiced.  But this one girl was enough to make him helpless.