“Would it please you to have me surrender?” He was very serious.
“Indeed it would, Bryce.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm tired of fighting. I want peace. I'm—I'm afraid to let this matter go any further. I'm truly afraid.”
“I think I want peace, too,” he answered wearily. “I'd be glad to quit—with honour. And I'll do it, too, if you can induce your uncle to give me the kind of logging contract I want with his road.”
“I couldn't do that, Bryce. He has you whipped—and he is not merciful to the fallen. You'll have to—surrender unconditionally.” Again she laid her little hand timidly on his wounded forearm. “Please give up, Bryce—for my sake. If you persist, somebody will get killed.”
“I suppose I'll have to,” he murmured sadly. “I dare say you're right, though one should never admit defeat until he is counted out. I suppose,” he continued bitterly, “your uncle is in high feather this morning.”
“I don't know, Bryce. He left in his motor for San Francisco about one o'clock this morning.”
For an instant Bryce Cardigan stared at her; then a slow, mocking little smile crept around the corners of his mouth, and his eyes lighted with mirth.
“Glorious news, my dear Shirley, perfectly glorious! So the old fox has gone to San Francisco, eh? Left in a hurry and via the overland route! Couldn't wait for the regular passenger-steamer to-morrow, eh? Great jumping Jehoshaphat! He must have had important business to attend to.” And Bryce commenced to chuckle. “Oh, the poor old Colonel,” he continued presently, “the dear old pirate! What a horrible right swing he's running into! And you want me to acknowledge defeat! My dear girl, in the language of the classic, there is nothing doing. I shall put in my crossing Sunday morning, and if you don't believe it, drop around and see me in action.”