"You bet I do." It was Lafe Johnson who was talking now, and not the sheriff of Badger. They were alone in the parlor. He watched her for a moment. Her profile was turned to him and her attitude was one of tired acquiescence with the stress of her situation. He hitched his chair forward close to hers.
"Say," he said, lowering his voice, "you forget this here Harris and all that, and throw in with me. I'll treat you good."
"How—throw in with you?"
"Why, you know. I'll take you over to a li'l' place I've got beyond the Willows. It's right pretty. We'll—"
"I wonder," said Miss Ferrier, without a trace of resentment, "I wonder if there's more than one man on earth who isn't a brute?"
"I don't take you, ma'am."
"What difference is there between you and the others? How're you better than this fellow you ran off—this Jackson?" she demanded, with her first display of animation. "You've got nothing on him."
"Say, you quit that. Quit that right now. I don't make my living—"
"And neither do I, Mr. Johnson. So put that in your pipe and smoke it."
She jumped to her feet and went out before he could prevent her. Johnson heard the bolt of her room jerked into place, and then he went downstairs, whistling a casual air. The barkeeper brought a tried judgment to bear on these symptoms and furtively closed one eye at the proprietor.