Bailey's tone grew sad and tender, but he did not move: "All right, Jim. If you want to go to hell as the murderer of your best friend, as well as for stealing another man's wife, do it. But you sha'n't go out of this door with that woman while I live. Now, that's final." His voice was low, and his words came slowly, but not from weakness.
For a moment hell looked from the other man's eyes. He was like a tiger intercepted in his leap upon his prey. The laugh had vanished from his hazel eyes—they were gray and cold and savage, but there was something equally forceful in Bailey's gaze.
Rivers could not shoot. He was infuriate, but he was not insane. He turned away, cursing his luck. His face, twitching and white, was terrible to look upon, but the crisis was over.
Bailey's eyes lightened. "Come, old man, you can't afford to do this. Go out and put up the team, and to-morrow we'll take Mrs. Burke home—I'll explain that she came over after the mail and couldn't get back."
Rivers turned on him again with a sneer. "You cussed fool, can't you see that she can't go back to Burke? I've made her mine—you understand?"
Bailey's hands fell slack. He suddenly remembered something. He brushed his hand over his brow as if to clear his vision:
"Jim, Jim, I—good God!—how could you do such a thing?" He was helpless as a boy, in face of this hideous complication.
Rivers pushed his advantage. He developed a species of swagger:
"Never mind about that. It's done. Now what are you going to do? Can you fix up such a thing as that?" Bailey was still silent. "It simply means that I'm her husband from this time on. Sit down, Blanche—I'm going to put up the team, but to-morrow morning we go. We couldn't make it now, anyway," he added. "There's nothing for it but to stay here all night."
Bailey stood aside to let him go out, then went to the stove and mechanically stirred it up and put some water heating. This finished, he sat down and leaned his head in his hands in confused thought.