"Man, could I do more?" she demanded, in scorn.
"No. But it's a lie," he returned. "Y'u'll get me to take y'u away an' then fool me--run off--God knows what. Women are all liars."
Manifestly he could not believe in her strange transformation. Memory of her wild and passionate denunciation of him and his kind must have seared even his calloused soul. But the ruthless nature of him had not weakened nor softened in the least as to his intentions. This weather-vane veering of hers bewildered him, obsessed him with its possibilities. He had the look of a man who was divided between love of her and hate, whose love demanded a return, but whose hate required a proof of her abasement. Not proof of surrender, but proof of her shame!
The ignominy of him thirsted for its like. He could grind her beauty under his heel, but he could not soften to this feminine inscrutableness.
And whatever was the truth of Ellen Jorth in this moment, beyond Colter's gloomy and stunted intelligence, beyond even the love of Jean Isbel, it was something that held the balance of mastery. She read Colter's mind. She dropped the torn blouse from her hand and stood there, unashamed, with the wave of her white breast pulsing, eyes black as night and full of hell, her face white, tragic, terrible, yet strangely lovely.
"Take me away," she whispered, stretching one white arm toward him, then the other.
Colter, even as she moved, had leaped with inarticulate cry and radiant face to meet her embrace. But it seemed, just as her left arm flashed up toward his neck, that he saw her bloody hand and wrist. Strange how that checked his ardor--threw up his lean head like that striking bird of prey.
"Blood! What the hell!" he ejaculated, and in one sweep he grasped her.
"How'd yu do that? Are y'u cut? . . . Hold still."
Ellen could not release her hand.
"I scratched myself," she said.
"Where?. . . All that blood!" And suddenly he flung her hand back with fierce gesture, and the gleams of his yellow eyes were like the points of leaping flames. They pierced her--read the secret falsity of her.
Slowly he stepped backward, guardedly his hand moved to his gun, and his glance circled and swept the interior of the cabin. As if he had the nose of a hound and sight to follow scent, his eyes bent to the dust of the ground before the door. He quivered, grew rigid as stone, and then moved his head with exceeding slowness as if searching through a microscope in the dust--farther to the left--to the foot of the ladder --and up one step--another--a third--all the way up to the loft.
Then he whipped out his gun and wheeled to face the girl.
"Ellen, y'u've got your half-breed heah!" he said, with a terrible smile.
She neither moved nor spoke. There was a suggestion of collapse, but it was only a change where the alluring softness of her hardened into a strange, rapt glow. And in it seemed the same mastery that had characterized her former aspect. Herein the treachery of her was revealed. She had known what she meant to do in any case.
Colter, standing at the door, reached a long arm toward the ladder, where he laid his hand on a rung. Taking it away he held it palm outward for her to see the dark splotch of blood.
"See?"
"Yes, I see," she said, ringingly.
Passion wrenched him, transformed him. "All that--aboot leavin' heah --with me--aboot givin' in--was a lie!"
"No, Colter. It was the truth. I'll go--yet--now--if y'u'll spare--HIM!"
She whispered the last word and made a slight movement of her hand toward the loft. "Girl!" he exploded, incredulously. "Y'u love this half-breed--this ISBEL! . . . Y'u LOVE him!"
"With all my heart! . . . Thank God! It has been my glory. . . .
It might have been my salvation. . . . But now I'll go to hell with y'u--if y'u'll spare him."
"Damn my soul!" rasped out the rustler, as if something of respect was wrung from that sordid deep of him. "Y'u--y'u woman! . . . Jorth will turn over in his grave. He'd rise out of his grave if this Isbel got y'u,"
"Hurry! Hurry!" implored Ellen. "Springer may come back.
I think I heard a call."
"Wal, Ellen Jorth, I'll not spare Isbel--nor y'u," he returned, with dark and meaning leer, as he turned to ascend the ladder.
Jean Isbel, too, had reached the climax of his suspense. Gathering all his muscles in a knot he prepared to leap upon Colter as he mounted the ladder. But, Ellen Jorth screamed piercingly and snatched her rifle from its resting place and, cocking it, she held it forward and low.
"COLTER!"
Her scream and his uttered name stiffened him.
"Y'u will spare Jean Isbel!" she rang out. "Drop that gun-drop it!"
"Shore, Ellen. . . . Easy now. Remember your temper. . . . I'll let Isbel off," he panted, huskily, and all his body sank quiveringly to a crouch.
"Drop your gun! Don't turn round. . . . Colter!--I'LL KILL Y'U!"
But even then he failed to divine the meaning and the spirit of her.
