She was at the other side of the room when he entered, having dodged behind a table.  He made a rush for her, but she evaded him, keeping the table between them.

There was no word said.  The girl’s breath was coming in great gasps from the fright and shock she had received, but Dale’s was shrill and laboring from the strength of his passions.

Reason left him as they circled around the table, and with a curse he overturned it so that it rolled and crashed out of the way, leaving her with no obstacle behind which to find shelter.

She ran toward the door, but Dale caught her at the threshold.  She twisted and squirmed in his grasp, scratching him and clawing at his face in an access of terror, and one hand finally caught the black mask covering and tore it from his face.

“Alva Dale!” she shrieked.  “Oh, you beast!”

Fighting with redoubled fury she forced him against one of the door jambs, still scratching and clawing.  Dale grasped one hand, but the free one reached his face, the fingers sinking into the flesh and making a deep gash in his cheek.

The pain made a demon of Dale, and he struck her.  She fell, soundlessly, her head striking the edge of a chair with a deadening, thudding crash.

Standing in the doorway looking down at her, the faint, outdoor light shining on her face and revealing its ghastly whiteness, Dale suffered a quick reaction.  He had not meant to strike so hard, he told himself; he hoped he had not killed her.

Kneeling beside her he felt her pulse and her head.  The flesh under his hand was cold as marble; the pulse—­if there was any—­was not perceptible.  Dale examined the back of her head, where it had struck the chair.  He got up, his face ashen and convulsed with horror.

“Good Lord!” he muttered hoarsely, “she’s dead—­or dying.  I’ve done it now!”

CHAPTER XXIII

THE GUNMAN

Dale’s first decision was to leave Peggy in the cabin.  But she might recover, and she had recognized him.  Ben Nyland would exact stern vengeance for the outrage.

Dale stood for some seconds in the doorway, his brain working rapidly.  Then he leaped inside the cabin, took the girl up in his arms, carried her to his horse, mounted, and with the limp, sagging body in his arms rode into the night.

Reaction, also, was working on Banker Maison.  Though more than an hour had passed since he had got into bed, following the departure of his nocturnal visitor, he had not slept a wink.  His brain revolving the incidents of the night—­it had been a positive panorama of vivid horrors.

The first gray streak of dawn was splitting the horizon when he gave it up, clambered out of bed and poured a generous drink from the bottle on the sideboard.

“God, a man needs something like this to brace him up after such a night!” he declared.