"No, I prefer to be alone—with the child. So you might have spared yourself the trouble."
"Now don't git heady, miss. It's partly on account of that little chap that I've come here to-night. He means a pile of money to me. I've run a big risk consarnin' him, an' I can't afford to take chances."
"Run a big risk? What do you mean?"
"Listen," and the squaw man moved closer and whispered something into Madeline's ear, which caused her to start. "Thar now, ye needn't take on," Bill continued. "All ye've got to do is to hand over that kid to me when he gits better, an' part of the chink's yours."
"Never!" Madeline's determined negative rang out distinctly through the night, and thrilled a silent listener concealed not far away. "I can't do that, so God help me!"
"Can't? Think ag'in. Money's a god; it works miracles."
Madeline did not reply. How could she answer this villain? What was the use of speech? She would leave him; close the door in his face. Siwash Bill mistook her silence for acquiescence. He drew nearer, and she shrank back.
"Yes," he continued, "money's a god; it'll do anything. An' look you; there's money in it, twenty thousand dollars! A man with that kin leave the North, go outside, an' be rich. Miss, I want that chink, an' you in the bargain. D'ye suppose I've been watchin' ye all these weeks fer nuthin'? D'ye suppose I'd a taken all yer rebuffs in silence if I didn't love ye? Not a bit of it. Come, say ye'll have me, an' we'll cut this d—place ferever. We'll cinch that twenty thousand dollars an' git out."
Madeline, though pale before, was white as death now. She clutched at the door post for support. She knew something of the determined nature of the man standing before her.
"You scoundrel!" she cried. "How dare you say such words! Leave me, and never show your face here again!"