"He's drownded—fell out of the ferry, back there in the river—him an' his horse both."
Alice did not know that the man was eyeing her keenly to detect refutation by word or look. She did not know that he was lying. The events of the night, to the moment of her plunge with the Texan into the river at the end of the lariat line, stood out in her brain with vivid distinctness. Purdy believed Tex to have drowned. She did not believe it, for she knew that if he had not reached shore, she could not possibly have reached shore. Her brain functioned rapidly. If Tex had survived he would surely come to her rescue. And, if Purdy believed him dead so much the better. She raised her hand and passed it across her eyes:
"I remember," she said, slowly.
Again the man laughed: "Oh, you do, eh? I was only guessin'! I know'd if I asked you you'd lie about it—but I know now! An' it makes things a damn sight easier fer me."
"Stand aside and let me pass!" cried the girl, "I didn't say he drowned. He'll be along here any minute—and my husband will be here, too!"
"Oh-ho, my thousan' dollar beauty!" sneered the man, "yer bluff comes in too late! If you'd of got it in first off, as soon as I said he was drownded, I might of b'lieved you—but there's nothin' doin' now. You can't scare me with a ghost—an' as fer yer husband—he'd ought to got me when he had the chanct." He advanced toward her, and the girl shrank back against her horse's shoulder. "Surely, you ain't afraid of me," he taunted, "why, it ain't only a year back sence you went ridin' with me. Remember—Wolf River, in the moonlight on the rim of the bench, an' the little lights a-twinklin' down in the valley? An' you remember how we was interrupted then—the sound of hoofs thumpin' the trail—the pilgrim come out of the dark an' shot 'fore I even know'd he had a gun. But it's different this time. Here in the bad lands there ain't no one to butt in. I've got you all to myself here. I love you now, same as I did then—only a whole heap more. Women are scarce down here. You figgered you wanted a change of men, or you wouldn't of be'n runnin' off with Tex. Well, you've got it—only you've got me instead of him. We won't hit it off so bad when you git used to my ways."
Every particle of blood receded from the girl's face and as she cowered against her horse, her eyes widened with horror. Her lips moved stiffly: "You—you dog!" she muttered hoarsely.
Purdy grinned: "Dog, eh? You ain't helpin' yer case none by callin' me names. Ain't you got no thankfulness in you? Here I pulled you out of the drink where you'd washed ashore—an' take you along safe an' sound—an' yer callin' me a dog!"
"I would rather be dead, a thousand times, than to be here this minute—with you!"
"Well, you ain't dead—an' you be here. An' if you don't go the limit with me, yer goin' to wish a thousan' times more that you was a damn sight deader than you ever will be! You know what I mean! An' you ain't a damn bit better than what I be, either! If you was you wouldn't of left yer man an' pulled out with Tex. I've got yer number, so you might's well throw in with me an' save yerself a whole lot of hell. I've got more'n what Tex has, anyhow—an' there's plenty more where I git mine. You might's well know it now, as later—I'm an outlaw! I was outlawed on account of you—an' it ain't no more'n right you should share it with me. I've worked on horses up to now, but I'm a-goin' to branch out! Banks an' railroad trains looks better to me! The name of Purdy's goin' to be a big name in these parts—an' then all to onct it won't be heard no more—an' you an' me'll be down in South America rollin' 'em high!" The man's voice had raised with his boasting, and as he finished, he pounded his chest with his fist.