Lance, getting no answer but a fierce, searching gaze from Dicksie’s wild eyes, laid his hand on a chair, lighted a cigar, and sat down before the fire. Dicksie dropped the telephone receiver, put her hand to her girdle, and looked at him. When she spoke her tone was stinging. “You know that man is going to Medicine Bend to kill his wife!”
Lance took the cigar from his mouth and returned her look. “I know no such thing,” he growled curtly.
“And to kill George McCloud, if he can.”
He stared without reply.
“You heard him say so,” persisted Dicksie vehemently.
Lance crossed his legs and threw back the brim of his hat. “McCloud is nobody’s fool. He will look out for himself.”
“These fiendish wires to Medicine Bend are down. Why hasn’t this line been repaired?” she 381 cried, wringing her hands. “There is no way to give warning to any one that he is coming, and you have let him go!”
Lance whirled in his chair. “Damnation! Could I keep him from going?”
“You did not want to; you are keeping out of trouble. What do you care whom he kills to-night!”
“You’ve gone crazy, Dicksie. Your imagination has upset your reason. Whether he kills anybody to-night or not, it’s too late now to make a row about it,” exclaimed Lance, throwing his cigar angrily away. “He won’t kill us.”