"That's all on that—just now," he said. "There's just one more thing I want to say—just a little warnin' I want to give you. I don't want you interferin' with things in the camp. That's no place for you. You jumped in to-night where you wasn't wanted an' you got away with it—but it ain't goin' to happen again."
"But my father is away and—"
"That's just the point, now," he broke in. "If you just let things go along in their natural way nothin' will happen. Everybody knows Keith McBain ain't goin' to last for another year's contractin'. Nobody's goin' to take his place but the one that has a right to take it. That's me—all on account of our understandin'."
Cherry got to her feet, her arms rigid, her finger-nails biting into her palms.
"Keith McBain is still boss of this camp," she said, "and if you want to know it, his daughter, Cherry McBain, is still mistress of her own heart. It's time you knew that you can't frighten either of us."
She was fully aware of the hazardous game she was playing. So long as his conversation turned upon her alone she had been capable of keeping her impatience well under control. After all, he might tire of a game in which he was no match for a wary opponent. But when he mentioned her father's name she could stand it no longer. The blood of Old Silent was hot in her veins, and the fire that had flashed from his eyes was leaping now in her own. She recalled the numberless times when she had seen her father reduced to a pitiful meekness before a word from Bill McCartney. She had wept bitterly for the old man, broken in body and will by a man whose only title to recognition was brute force and the possession of a life secret. All the injustice of it came upon her like a flood. She would do no more weeping. She would cringe no more. She would fight, whatever the consequences, and bring her father to fight as well.
McCartney got up and looked at her with his customary sneer. "You talk that way because you don't know," he said slowly, "because he ain't here to stop you. But I ain't goin' to be foolish about it. When Keith McBain wants to fight Bill McCartney he's welcome. But he won't fight—because he can't fight. He's wanted bad an' he knows the right hunch to play. An' you ain't goin' to fight Bill McCartney neither, for Bill McCartney ain't goin' to fight you. He's goin' to love you!"
He left his place beside the chair and lurched unsteadily towards her. Leaving the couch quickly, Cherry moved till she got the table between herself and McCartney and then looked at him steadily. For some reason her fear, her nervousness was gone. She felt equal to any emergency, and quite capable of matching any move he should make. She made up her mind that if she could reach the door she would make a dash for the outside and call Gabe. But McCartney, dazed though he was from drinking, was sufficiently alert to anticipate any such move on her part, and was careful to keep possession of the side of the table nearest the door. After a couple of futile attempts on McCartney's part to reach Cherry, he stood for a moment and looked at her, leaning forward with both hands on the table.
"There ain't a bit o' use in this—an' you know it!" he declared, and for the first time since he had entered the cabin his look was sinister and threatening. "Do you want me to go out o' here?"
"I do—get out!" Cherry replied.