His eyes were alight, his voice eager. "It would be such a glorious thing if you could join me in my work."
The mention of his work stung her. "Oh no! It is impossible. I should die here! I have no sense of duty towards these poor vagabonds. I'm sorry for them—but to live here—no, no! You must not ask it. You must go your way and I will go mine. You are only torturing me needlessly."
"Forgive me," he pleaded. "I did not mean to do so."
She continued, wildly: "Can't you see how crazy, how impossible, it is? I admire you—I believe in your work—it is magnificent; but I can't live your life. My friends, my art, mean too much to me."
There was a tremulous, passionate pleading which failed of finality: it perplexed her lover; it did not convince him.
"You are right; of course you are right," he said again; "but that does not help me to bear the pain of your loss. I can't let you go out of my life—utterly—I can't do it—I will not—Hark! What is that?"
A faint, far-off, thundering sound interrupted him. A rushing roar, as of many horsemen rapidly approaching. Hastening to the window, Curtis bent his head to listen. "It sounds like a cavalry charge. Here they come! Cowboys—a mob of them! Can it be Yarpe's gang? Yes; that is precisely what it is. Yarpe leading them into some further deviltry."
Whooping and cursing, and urging their tired horses with quirt and spur, the desperadoes, somewhat thinned of ranks, pouring by in clattering, pounding rush—as orderless as a charging squad of Sioux warriors—turned up a side street and disappeared almost before any one but Curtis was aware of them.
"They are bent on mischief," said the soldier as he turned upon the girl, all personal feeling swept away by the passing mob. "They have followed me in to force the jail and hang Cut Finger." He caught up his cap. "I must prevent it!"
"No! No!" cried Elsie, seizing his arm. "You must not go out in the street to-night—they will kill you—please don't go—you have done your duty. Now let the mayor act, I beg of you!"