“No you won’t go cryin’ small fer me!” blurted out Joel.

Lucy was surprised to see pride in him.  “Joel, I’ll not make it appear—­”

“You’ll not say one word about me to any one,” he went on, with the blood beginning to darken his face.  And now he faced her.  How strange the blaze in his differently colored eyes!  “Lucy Bostil, there’s been thet done an’ said to me which I’ll never forgive.  I’m no good in Bostil’s Ford.  Mebbe I never was much.  But I could get a job when I wanted it an’ credit when I needed it.  Now I can’t get nothin’.  I’m no good! . . .  I’m no good!  An’ it’s your fault!”

“Oh, Joel, what can I do?” cried Lucy.

“I reckon there’s only one way you can square me,” he replied, suddenly growing pale.  But his eyes were like flint.  He certainly looked to be in possession of all his wits.

“How?” queried Lucy, sharply.

“You can marry me.  Thet’ll show thet gang!  An’ it’ll square me.  Then I’ll go back to work an’ I’ll stick.  Thet’s all, Lucy Bostil.”

Manifestly he was laboring under strong suppressed agitation.  That moment was the last of real strength and dignity ever shown by Joel Creech.

“But, Joel, I can’t marry you—­even if I am to blame for your ruin,” said Lucy, simply.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t love you.”

“I reckon thet won’t make any difference, if you don’t love some one else.”

Lucy gazed blankly at him.  He began to shake, and his eyes grew wild.  She rose from the log.

“Do you love anybody else?” he asked, passionately.

“None of your business!” retorted Lucy.  Then, at a strange darkening of his face, an aspect unfamiliar to her, she grew suddenly frightened.

“It’s Van!” he said, thickly.

“Joel, you’re a fool!”

That only infuriated him.

“So they all say.  An’ they got my old man believin’ it, too.  Mebbe I am. . . .  But I’m a-goin’ to kill Van!”

“No!  No!  Joel, what are you saying?  I don’t love Van.  I don’t care any more for him than for any other rider—­or—­or you.”

“Thet’s a lie, Lucy Bostil!”

“How dare you say I lie?” demanded Lucy.  “I’ve a mind to turn my back on you.  I’m trying to make up for my blunder and you—­you insult me!”

“You talk sweet . . . but talk isn’t enough.  You made me no-good . . . .  Will you marry me?”

“I will not!” And Lucy, with her blood up, could not keep contempt out of voice and look, and she did not care.  That was the first time she had ever shown anything, approaching ridicule for Joel.  The effect was remarkable.  Like a lash upon a raw wound it made him writhe; but more significant to Lucy was the sudden convulsive working of his features and the wildness of his eyes.  Then she turned her back, not from contempt, but to hurry away from him.

He leaped after her and grasped her with rude hands.