The noise of the wind had deadened his approach to the house. He had come through the living room to the opened kitchen door, by the stove of which was the bending girl.
She twisted about in his arms, only to bring her face directly against his own. She was held in a vise, in the arms of the huge cattleman. His hoarse whispers were muttered against her mouth, her cheek, her neck.
He chuckled and gloated as she fought for her freedom, dumbly, for her thoughts flew up to the woman upstairs. Above all things, Mrs. Langdon must be spared a knowledge of that which was happening to Nettie.
"Ain't no use to struggle! Ain't no use to cry," he chortled. "I got you tight, and there ain't no one to hear. I been thinkin' of you day and night, gell, for months now, and I been countin' off the minutes for this."
She cried in a strangled voice:
"She's upstairs! She'll hear you! Oh, she's coming down. Oh, don't you hear her? Oh, for the love of God! let me go."
The man heard nothing but his clamoring desires.
"Gimme your lips!" said the Bull huskily.
The clipclop of those loose slippers clattering on the stairs broke upon the hush that had fallen in the kitchen. Through all her agony Nettie heard the sound of those little feet, and she knew—she felt—just when they had stopped at the lower step as Mrs. Langdon clung to the bannister. Slowly the wife of the cowman sank to the lowest step. She did not lose consciousness, but an icy stiffness crept over her face; her jaw dropped, and a glaze came like a veil before her staring eyes.
With a superhuman effort Nettie had obtained her release. She sprang to Mrs. Langdon, and groveled at her feet.