“Oh Saul, my Saul!” Mrs. Chadron moaned.
“Was it you that—oh, was it you!” There was accusation, disillusionment, sorrow—and more than words can define—in Nola’s voice. Frances waited to hear no more. In a moment she was standing in 296 the open door beside Nola, who blocked it against her father with outstretched arms.
Chadron was facing his wife, his back to Frances as she passed.
“Yes, it was me, and all I’m sorry for is that I didn’t finish him on the spot. Here, you fellers”—to some troopers who crowded about the open door leading to the veranda—“come in here and carry out this cot.”
But it wasn’t their day to take orders from Chadron; none of them moved. Frances touched Nola’s arm; she withdrew it and let her pass.
Macdonald, alone in the room, had lifted himself to his elbow, listening. Frances pressed him back to his pillow with one hand, reaching with the other under the cot for his revolvers. Her heart jumped with a great, glad bound, as if it had leaped from death to safety, when she touched the weapons. A cold steadiness settled over her. If Saul Chadron entered that room, she swore in her heart that she would kill him.
“Don’t interfere with me, King,” said Chadron, turning again to the door, “I tell you he goes, alive or dead. I can’t breathe—”
“Stop where you are!” Frances rose from her groping under the cot, a revolver in her hand.
Chadron, who had laid hold of Nola to tear her from the door, jumped like a man startled out of his sleep. In the heat of his passion he had not noticed one woman more or less.