He looked away from her.  He was, indeed, not at his best.  His beard had grown out on his usually clean-shaven face and his cheeks looked sallow and sunken.  He was tingling all over with a raging desire to throw his arms about her and tell her how he loved her and longed to make her his wife, but suddenly a mind-picture of Toot Wambush rose before him.  He saw her deliberately lying to the officers to save him from arrest, and—­worse than all—­he saw her in the arms of the outlaw’s father sobbing out a confession of her love.  He told himself then, almost in abject terror of some punishment held over him by God Himself, that Mrs. Dawson’s prayers would be answered—­if—­if he gave way.  “No,” he commanded himself, “I shall stand firm.  She’s not for me, though she may love me—­though she does love me now and would wipe out the past with her life.  A woman as changeable as that would change again.”  Then a jealous rage flared up within him, and he laid a threatening hand on either of her shoulders and glared into her eyes.

“I told you last night I’d never bring up a certain subject again, but—­”

“Then you’d better not,” she said, so firmly, so vindictively, that his tongue was stilled.  “I came here out of kindness; don’t you dare—­don’t you insult me again, Mr. Westerfelt.”

“Oh, do forgive me!  I—­” But she had shaken off his hands and moved nearer the stairway.

“You made a promise last night,” she reminded him, “and I did not dream you had so little respect for me as to break it so soon.”

He moved towards her, his hands outstretched imploringly, but a sound from below checked him.  Some one was speaking to Washburn in the office.  Then footsteps were heard on the stairs, and Mrs. Bradley, followed by Luke, waddled laboriously up the steps.  She was wiping her eyes, which were red from weeping.  She glanced in cold surprise at Harriet, and passing her with only a nod, went to Westerfelt and threw her arms around his neck.  Then with her head on his breast she burst into fresh tears.

“You pore, motherless, unprotected boy,” she sobbed.  “I can’t bear it a bit longer.  Me ‘n’ Luke wus the cause o’ yore comin’ to this oncivilized place anyway, an’ you’ve been treated wuss ’an a dog.  Ef Luke had one speck o’ manhood left in him, he’d—­”

Bradley advanced from the door, and drew his wife away from Westerfelt.

“Don’t act so daddratted foolish,” he said.  “No harm hain’t been done yet—­no serious harm.”  Still holding her hand, he turned to Westerfelt; “They’ve tried to do you dirt, John, I know, but them boys will be the best friends on earth to you now.  Ef you ever want to run fer office all you got to do is to announce yorese’f.  Old Hunter wus down at Bill Stone’s this mornin’ as we passed buyin’ his fine hoss to replace yore’n.”

“I reckon they’ve run Toot Wambush clean off,” put in Mrs. Bradley, looking significantly at Harriet.  She expected the girl to reply, but Harriet only avoided her glance.  Mrs. Bradley rubbed her eyes again, put her handkerchief into her pocket, and critically surveyed the damp, bedraggled dress of the girl.