“How do you know I had Caldwell write it?”
His tone was nasty and she could see that he was enjoying the misery he caused her.
But though Juliet was humbled, she was none the less a daughter of her father, and at Stelton’s tone and manner her imperious anger flashed up.
“Look here, Stelton,” she said in a cold, even tone, “please remember who I am and treat me with respect. If you speak to me again as you have this afternoon I will call those men in and have you quirted up against a tree. If you don’t believe me, try it.”
But Stelton was beyond speech. All the blood in him seemed to rush to his head and distend the veins there. He struggled with his bonds so furiously that the girl rose to her feet in alarm. Then she walked to the library table, opened the drawer and took out a long, wooden-handled .45.
With this in her possession she resumed her seat. Presently the foreman, unable to free his hands, ceased his struggles through sheer exhaustion. 259
“I know you made Caldwell write that letter,” she said, balancing the gun, “and I want to know why you did it?”
Stelton, finding physical intimidation impossible, resorted to mental craft.
“I didn’t want you to love that sheepman,” he replied sullenly.
“Why not?”