"That fellow struck me with a gun. Let me in! Let me get fixed for him! By God! I'll kill him."
"Kill whom? Who did it? Wait! Wait, now!" expostulated Ellsworth, following him toward his room; but Barkley still fumed and threatened. "That fellow Anderson—" Ellsworth caught.
The sound of their voices reached other ears. Constance came running from her own room, questioning.
"Barkley's been hurt," explained her father, motioning her away. "Some mistake. He and Anderson have had trouble over this railroad business, some way."
"By God! I'll kill him!" shrieked Barkley again, in spite of her presence, perhaps because of it. "Where can I get a gun?"
"You forget—my daughter—" began Ellsworth. But Constance avenged the discourtesy for herself.
"Never mind, papa," she said coldly. "Mr. Barkley, you look ridiculous. Go wash your face; and then, if you want a gun, go get one in the front room. The wall's full of them." A glint of scorn was in her eyes, which carried no mercy for the vanquished, nor any concern for the victor. She drew her father with her into her own room.
"By the Lord! girl," exclaimed he, "things have come out different from what we expected. I never thought—"
"No," said Constance, "you never thought. You didn't know." She spoke bitterly.
Ellsworth sank down in a chair, his hands in his pockets. "Well, we're whipped," said he. "The game's up. That fellow Anderson did us up, after all,—and look here, here's the money he threw back, almost in my face. They went with him like so many lambs. Confound it all, I don't more'n half believe I ever understood that fellow."