Warden no longer considered the risks whose ghosts had haunted him on his ride to the Hamlin cabin; his fears had been swallowed by the oblivion of mental irresponsibility.  He had only the vivid knowledge that he was alone in the cabin with the girl.

“But there are people in Willets who are determined that you shall go,” he said.  “I can keep you on the job in spite of them, my dear—­and I’ll do it.  But there are certain conditions—­certain——­”

She struck him, then, bringing her free hand around with a wide, full sweep.  The open hand landed on the side of his face with a smack that resounded through the cabin, staggering him, causing him to release the other hand.

A great, red welt appeared on his cheek where the hand had struck; and he felt of his cheek with his fingers, amazed, incredulous.  For an instant only, however, he stood, trying to wipe the sting of the blow away.  Then he laughed throatily and started after her—­she having retreated behind the table, where she stood, watching him, her eyes wide, her face dead white.

Warden, leaning far over the table, saw her eyes close as she stood there; saw her fingers grip the edge of the table; noted that her chin had dropped and that she seemed to be on the point of fainting.

Warden’s back was toward the front door; he had to slip sideways to get around the table, and as he did so his profile was brought toward the door.  He saw a shadow at his feet—­a shadow cast by the last effulgent glow of the setting sun—­a shadow made by a man standing in the doorway.

Warden halted and held hard to the table edge.  Reason, cold, remorseless reason surged back into his brain, accompanied by a paralyzing fear.  Some prescience told him that the man in the doorway was Kane Lawler.  And though he was convinced of it, he was a long time lifting his head and in turning it the merest trifle toward the door.  And when he saw that the dread apparition was indeed Lawler, and that Lawler’s heavy pistol was extending from his side, the hand and arm behind it rigid, he stiffened, flung himself around and faced Lawler, his mouth open, his eyes bulging with the terrible dread of death and the awful certainty that death was imminent.

For an instant there was a silence—­breathless, strained, pregnant with the promise of tragedy.  Then the silence was rent by Lawler’s voice, dry, light, and vibrant: 

“Warden, if you move a quarter of an inch I’ll blow you to hell!”

Lawler walked slowly to Ruth, took her by the shoulders and steadied her.

“It’s Lawler, Ruth,” he said reassuringly.  “I want you to tell me what’s wrong here.”  He shook her, gently, and she opened her eyes and looked at him dazedly.  Then, as she seemed to recognize him, to become convinced that it was really Lawler whom she had seen in the doorway, she smiled and rested her head on his shoulder, her hands patting his arms and his back as though to convince herself beyond doubt.