For a long, breathless space she looked at him; noting the evil light in his eyes and the cruel, bestial curve of his lips.  She saw how his gaze quickened as he watched her; how he had drawn one foot under him—­obviously to be used as leverage for a rapid leap should she try to reach the door.

“It ain’t no use, ma’am,” he said; “you’re here, an’ you’re goin’ to stay for a while.”  He got up and walked to the door, placing his back against it and grinning widely as he looked down at her, as she yielded to a long shudder of dread.

During the silence that followed Slade’s words Ruth could hear faint sounds from below—­the clinking of glasses, the scuffling of feet, a low murmur of voices.  She knew, then, that they had brought her to a room above a saloon—­the Wolf, she supposed, for that was where Warden said he intended to bring her.

She watched Slade fearfully, divining that he meant to attack her.  She could see that determination in his eyes and in his manner.  He was still grinning, but now the grin had become set, satyric, hideous.  It was a mere smirk.  No mirth was behind it—­nothing but passion, intense, frightful.

She glanced swiftly around, saw a window beyond the foot of the bed with a ragged shade hanging over it.  She knew the Wolf was only two stories in height, and she felt that if she threw herself out of the window she would suffer injury.  But she meant to do it.  She got her feet set firmly on the floor, and was about to run toward the window, when Slade leaped at her, seeing the reckless design in her eyes.

She had been moving when Slade leaped, and she evaded the arm he extended and slipped away from him.  She heard Slade curse.  She was almost at the window when he rushed at her again; and to keep him from grasping her she dodged, bringing up against the farther wall, while Slade, losing his balance, plunged against the window, crashing against the glass and sending a thousand broken fragments tinkling on the floor of the room and into the darkness outside.

She was alert to the advantage that had suddenly come to her, and she ran lightly to the door and tried to lift the bar.  She got one end of it from a socket, but the other stuck.  She pulled frantically at it.  It finally came loose, with a suddenness that threw her off balance, and she reeled against the bed, almost falling.

She saw Slade coming toward her, a bestial rage in his eyes, and she threw herself again at the door, grasping it and throwing it wide open.  She tried to throw herself out of the opening, to the stairs that led straight downward into the barroom.  But the movement was halted at its inception by Slade’s arms, which went around her with the rigidity of iron hoops, quickly constricting.  She got a glimpse of the room below—­saw the bar and the men near it—­all facing her way, watching her.  Then Slade drew her back and closed the door.

He did not bar the door, for she was fighting him, now—­fighting him with a strength and fury that bothered him for an instant.  His strength, however, was greater than hers, and at last her arms were crushed against her sides with a pressure that almost shut off her breath.  Slade’s face was close to hers, his lips loose; and his eyes were looking into hers with an expression that terrified her.