Singleton’s head went back, his body rose from the floor.  He came down with his knees unjointed, his head sagging on his chest; came down in a heap and tumbled forward upon his face, his arms limp, the fingers slowly spreading.

For an instant Lawler stood over him, pale, his eyes agleam.  Then when Singleton did not move he turned to Ruth, smiling faintly.

“Go home, now, Ruth, before this beast comes to life.  Go out and send the children away.  I’ve got something to say to Singleton.”

Ruth looked intently at him, saw there would be no use of pleading with him, and walked to the door, dragging the children away from it, telling them to go home.

Jimmy Singleton, terrorized by the thing that had happened to his father, needed no urging.  He ran, whimpering, toward town, the other children following.

Ruth went to the shed where she kept her pony, threw saddle and bridle on him and led him to the step, where she usually mounted.

The door of the schoolhouse was closed.  Trailing the reins over the pony’s head, she ran to one of the windows—­a small one in the center of the side wall, dust-begrimed, with one pane of glass missing.

Peering within, she saw Singleton sitting up, staring dazedly around, supporting himself with his hands, an expression of almost laughable, bewilderment on his face.

Lawler was standing near him—­big, stern, seeming to wait for Singleton to rise before he spoke to him.

And while Ruth watched, Singleton staggered to his feet.  He swayed uncertainly as he faced Lawler; and when Lawler advanced toward him he cringed and staggered back, raising one arm as though to ward off an expected blow.

Ruth heard his voice; it was a whine, tremulous with fear.

“Don’t hit me again, Lawler; I wasn’t meanin’ anything!”

And then Ruth saw that Singleton must have been struck a second time, for high up on his left cheek was a huge gash that had suffused his chin and neck with blood.  She remembered that while saddling and bridling her pony she had heard a sound from within the schoolhouse, but she had thought then that it must have been Lawler moving a chair.  Plainly, Singleton had recovered from the first blow, and had received another.

Lawler’s voice again reached her.  It was low, vibrant with passion.

“Singleton, I ought to kill you.  I will kill you if you ever tell that girl that you know her father is a rustler.  Damn your hide, she knows it now—­and it’s breaking her heart!

“I’m warning you.  Don’t you ever go near the Two Bar again.  Don’t you ever buy another steer from Hamlin.  Don’t even speak to him.  I’ll kill you sure as hell if you do!”

Ruth reeled away from the window.  She got on her pony somehow, taking care to make no sound, for she did not want Lawler to know that she had heard.  Once on the pony she sent the little animal rapidly away, toward the Two Bar—­away from Lawler and from that happiness for which she had hoped despite the hideous knowledge which for months had tortured her.