“I will not!” came the girl’s voice, strong, defiant. “Go at once or I’ll scream.”
“Scream!” the Basque dared her as he put his shoulder to the door and snapped the lock. “You come wit’ me.”
A wave of emotion smote Madeiras as he sprang into the room. Molly had lighted a lamp. He saw her crouching against the bed, her nightgown open at the throat and half revealing the swelling bosom, the tapering limbs. The fragrance of her pink and white loveliness intoxicated the Basque. No wonder that Gallup wanted her. No wonder that Johnny had.
Molly had never been anything more than a tomboy to the Basque. He saw her now for a flesh-and-blood goddess.
The girl read his look and opened her mouth to cry out. The Basque saw her start and he leaped toward her. Molly struggled as his hand closed over her mouth.
“Don’t you yell,” he warned her. “You t’ink I’m pretty bad frien’, eh? Some day, mebbe, you change your min’. I tak’ you now. You go wit’ me! What I care for Kent? What I care for Gallup? I keel my bes’ frien’; but Madre de Dios, I die for you!”
Molly beat his hands and scratched his face, but a kitten would not have been more helpless against the strength of him. She felt herself lifted into his arms. With one hand Madeiras snatched up a pile of clothing. The next instant he was striding down the hall, carrying her as if she were no weight at all.
A hundred yards from the house the Basque turned, and shaking his fist at it he cried:
“By God, for once Tony Madeiras ees the boss!”