He came straight on to the open door; as the lamp light fell upon him her formless fear of a moment ago was swept up and engulfed in an access of terror which made her sick and dizzy.  All of the time until now, even when appearances hinted at an inexplicable duplicity, she had felt safe with him, trusting to what her natural instinct read of him in his eyes and carriage and voice.  And now she clutched at the mantel with one hand while in the other the lamp swayed precariously.

The reason for her agitation was plain enough; had it been his sole purpose to strike terror into her heart he could hardly have selected a more efficient method.  Across the face, hiding it entirely, leaving only the eyes to glint through two rude slits at her, was a wide bandana handkerchief.  The big black hat was drawn low, now; the handkerchief, bound about the brow, fell to a point well below the base of his throat.

“Easy there,” he said in a voice which upon her ears was only a tense, evil whisper.  “Easy.  You know what I want....  Look out for that lamp!  Making it dark in here, even setting the shack on fire, isn’t going to help much.  Easy, girlie.”

“You ... you ...” she panted, and found no word to go on.

He came in and strode across the room, taking the lamp from her and setting it on the mantel.  She had come near dropping it when his hand brushed hers.  Again she drew back from him hastily, her eyes running to the door.  But he forestalled her, closed the door and stood in her way, towering above her, his air charged with menace.

“You pretty thing!” he muttered, his tone frankly sincere though his voice was still hardly more than a harsh whisper.  “If I just had time to play with you ...  I said you’d know what I want.  And don’t get funny with the little toy pistol you’d be sure to have in your dress.  It won’t do you any good; you know that, don’t you?”

She did know.  Her hand had already gone into her bosom where the “little toy pistol” lay against that which she had vainly thought it could guard, a thick envelope.  The man came quite close to her, so close that she felt his breath stir her hair, so close that his slightly uplifted hand could come down upon her before she could stir an inch.

“You can tell Henry Pollard for me,” he jeered from the secure anticipation of his present triumph, “that the unknown stranger names him seven kinds of fool.  To think he could get across this way and sneak that little wad by me!  And by the by, it’s getting late and if you don’t mind I’ll take what’s coming to me and move on.”

Then she found her tongue, the fires blazed up in her eyes and a hot flush came into her pale cheeks.

“Big brute and cur and coward!” she flung at him.  “Woman-fighter!”

“All of that,” he laughed insolently.  “And then some.  And you?  Grey eyed, pink beauty!  By God, girl, you’d make an armful for a man!  Soon to be queen of Dead Man’s Alley, eh?  I’ll see you there; I’ll come and pay my respects!  Oh, but I will, coward that I am!  But now....”