“Poor ol’ Pete! He’s scary an’ funny, an’ more’n likely they’d think he was jest imaginin’ things. No, Dot! It’s better the way it turned out.” He paused, then continued in slow, plaintive tones: “After I got away from them night riders this mornin’, I kept lookin’ back. I was afraid they’d drop in at the ranch ag’in—an’ my mother was there. An’—well, you was out yonder, too, Dot. Anyway, I was worried an’ wasn’t watchin’ for Warburton. That’s how he come to git me.
“He took me over to Blue Mud Spring, an’ me an’ him an’ yore dad rode back to the ranch together. Then I told him about the Marysville robbery, an’ Pete tells his story of how he seen Miles leavin’ the city hall with a valise, round one o’clock, the night before the robbery. There was a lot more said, for instance, how Miles, or Quintell, as he calls himself, was tryin’ to drive you folks out o’ the country, an’ how he’d salted these claims to hold up the railroad comp’ny. Then I got the idea to git Miles, myself. I told Warburton I figgered that much was comin’ to me, seein’ as how Miles had made me a criminal. Yore dad took sides with me, Dot. Yes, he did. An’ Warburton agreed. He put me on my honor.”
He laughed. “Everything’s turned out dandy. An’ the Billy Geerusalem claims is goin’ to be split three ways, between Pete, my mother, an’ yore dad. That’s all bin fixed, Dot, an’ better days are comin’.”
As he finished speaking, he reached out suddenly, and his hand closed hard over hers. Her face was averted, streaming with silent tears. She was gazing mutely toward the boundless stretches of desolation beyond which lay the now invisible violet and yellow scallop of range that had formed the background of all her past romantic dreams. She faced him suddenly, a sob bursting from her, clutching his hand spasmodically.
“It’s not too late, Jerome. It’s not too late,” she cried. “You can escape. You have to! He must not take you. Do you know what it’ll mean? The penitentiary for life! Dear God! Never to get free! To count the long, long years passing, to grow old and wasted, to die and find your freedom in the grave. Jerome, he must not take you. You owe it to yourself, to your mother, to me! Jerome, for my sake, if for no other reason!”
She jerked her horse to an abrupt stop. Gone was her restraint. She was weeping passionately, appealingly, with hysterical abandon. He reined in beside her, leaned out of the saddle, caught her in his arms, and drew her to him. His breath was coming from him in great gasps.
“Dot—darling!” he choked hoarsely.
Her heart opened then, and she poured into his ear the strength of her love for him, all her secret hopes, her fears, her mounting despair, in one desperate outpouring of entreaty.
“Don’t you remember, Jerome, dearest?” she sobbed distractedly. “‘You poor, wounded wild animal,’ I called you. I wanted you then. You wandered out of my dreamland, a part of my dreams. You came living—dying, to me. You belonged to me. You belong to me now—now that my heart is breaking for you, dear.” She stroked his face fiercely with her hands. “To-night, I’ll speak to father. You must be on your way to the Mexican border by midnight. We’ll sell the ranch and the claims and follow, with your mother as soon as——”
She broke off. Through the dead silence, bearing down on them from the rear, came the sound of mad hoofs, the pop of a quirt against an animal’s flanks mingling with the wild, weird cries of a man. Then, into view loomed a diminutive rider. It was Tinnemaha Pete astride one of his little burros. Like some grotesque goblin of the night he came speeding up to them, cackling and sputtering incoherently.