“I will take him in the stable for you and give him something to eat. He can rest there for a few hours and then you can start back.”
The corporal advanced, pushed her gently aside, loosened the cinches and swung the saddle from the back of the pinto mare. As he did so, MacGregor’s wife withdrew a few paces. The policeman had his back to her, and, therefore, did not see the swift movement of her right hand toward her blouse. But he did see, when next he chanced to turn his head, the small revolver nestling in her hand—pointed straight at his head.
“I didn’t think you’d do a thing like that,” declared Rand, reproachfully. “You’ll only get yourself in more trouble. Put it down.”
“You keel my man,” the young barbarian declared spitefully. “Now I keel you.”
“That’s your privilege,” answered the policeman, quite unmoved. “But if you do, you’ll hang for it. Be reasonable, and put down that gun.”
“Rat” MacGregor’s wife possessed the black, beady eyes of a snake. They were unrelenting, wicked, revengeful. Her staring gaze never left the policeman’s face. Eight feet away—it would not be possible to leap suddenly forward and disarm her. His best chance was to endeavor to get his own gun.
But how could he get his gun, when she was watching him like that? He knew that if he moved his hand a single inch, her weapon would explode in his face. Hers was no idle threat. She really intended to kill him!
There was a chance, very remote, of course, that Fontaine or Le Sueur might come to his assistance. Look out of the window. See him and the woman there.
“Look here,” said Rand, fighting for time, “I think you are making a very serious mistake. You’ll have to answer for it in the end. Inspector Cameron will be sure to get you. You can’t possibly escape. While there is still time, you’d better put down that gun.”
“If I do,” her eyes glinted, “will you promise not put me in jail?”