“An’ all I did,” Cahill continued, as though unconscious of the interruption, “was to disgrace her.”  He rose suddenly to his feet.  His mental sufferings were so keen that his huge body trembled.  He recognized how truly he had made “a mess of it.”  He saw that all he had hoped to do for his daughter by crime would have been done for her by this marriage with Ranson, which would have made her a “lady,” made her rich, made her happy.  Had it not been for his midnight raids she would have been honored, loved, and envied, even by the wife of the colonel herself.  But through him disgrace had come upon her, sorrow and trouble.  She would not be known as the daughter of Senator Ranson, but of Cahill, an ex-member of the Whyo gang, a highway robber, as the daughter of a thief who was serving his time in State prison.  At the thought Cahill stepped backward unsteadily as though he had been struck.  He cried suddenly aloud.  Then his hand whipped back to his revolver, but before he could use it Ranson had seized his wrist with both hands.  The two struggled silently and fiercely.  The fact of opposition brought back to Cahill all of his great strength.

“No, you don’t!” Ranson muttered.  “Think of your daughter, man.  Drop it!”

“I shall do it,” Cahill panted.  “I am thinking of my daughter.  It’s the only way out.  Take your hands off me—­I shall!”

With his knuckles Ranson bored cruelly into the wounded hand, and it opened and the gun dropped from it; but as it did so it went off with a report that rang through the building.  There was an instant rush of feet upon the steps of the veranda, and at the sound the two men sprang apart, eyeing each other sheepishly like two discovered truants.  When Sergeant Clancey and the guard pushed through the door Ranson stood facing it, spinning the revolver in cowboy fashion around his fourth finger.  He addressed the sergeant in a tone of bitter irony.

“Oh, you’ve come at last,” he demanded.  “Are you deaf?  Why didn’t you come when I called?” His tone showed he considered he had just cause for annoyance.

“The gun brought me, I—­” began Clancey.

“Yes, I hoped it might.  That’s why I fired it,” snapped Ranson.  “I want two whiskey-and-sodas.  Quick now!”

“Two—­” gasped Clancey.

“Whiskey-and-sodas.  See how fast one of you can chase over to the club and get ’em.  And next time I want a drink don’t make me wake the entire garrison.”

As the soldiers retreated Ranson discovered Miss Cahill’s white face beyond them.  He ran and held the door open by a few inches.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, reassuringly.  “He’s nearly persuaded.  Wait just a minute longer and he’ll be giving us his blessing.”

“But the pistol-shot?” she asked.

“I was just calling the guard.  The electric bell’s broken, and your father wanted a drink.  That’s a good sign, isn’t it?  Shows he’s friendly, What kind did you say you wanted, Mr. Cahill—­Scotch was it, or rye?” Ranson glanced back at the sombre, silent figure of Cahill, and then again opened the door sufficiently for him to stick out his head.  “Sergeant,” he called, “make them both Scotch—­long ones.”