"If it is imperative that you know, I will tell you. I intend seeking Mr. Winston, and informing him exactly who and what I am."
"Now? at this hour of the night?"
"Better now, and at this hour of the night, than venture waiting until after you have had an inning. I am not at all ashamed to confess the truth, if I can only be the first to tell my story."
She pressed the latch of the door, her breathing so rapid as to be positively painful. With an ill-repressed oath, Farnham sprang to his feet, his rising anger putting an end to all prudence.
"Wait!" he exclaimed gruffly. "Wait where you are until I am done. You have heard only a part of this thing so far. My God, girl! don't you know me well enough by this time to comprehend that I always have my way, whatever the cost may be to others? Lord! what do I care for this fellow? or, for the matter of that, what do I care for you? I don't permit people to stand in my path; and I supposed you had thoroughly learned that lesson, if no other. Faith, you had cause enough, surely. So you refuse all endeavor to keep Winston out of this affair, do you? Perhaps you had better pause a minute, and remember who it is you are dealing with. I reckon you never saw any signs of the quitter about me. Now, it 's true I 'd rather have you do this business up quietly; but if you refuse, don't forget there are other means fully as effective, and a damn sight quicker." He reached out suddenly, grasping her hand. "Did you ever hear the adage, 'Dead men tell no tales'?" he questioned savagely.
She drew her hand sharply back from its instant of imprisonment, with a smothered cry, her eyes filled with undisguised horror.
"You threaten—you threaten murder?"
"Oh, we never use that word out in this country—it is considered far too coarse, my dear," and Farnham's thin lips curled sardonically. "We merely 'silence' our enemies in Colorado. It is an extremely simple matter; nothing at all disagreeable or boorish about it, I can assure you. A stick of dynamite dropped quietly down a shaft-hole, or pushed beneath a bunk house—that's all. The coroner calls it an accident; the preachers, a dispensation of Providence; while the fellows who really know never come back to tell. If merely one is desired, a well-directed shot from out a cedar thicket affords a most gentlemanly way of shuffling off this mortal coil."
"You would not! You dare not!"
"I? Why, such a thought is preposterous, of course, for the risk would be entirely unnecessary. Quite evidently you are not well acquainted with one of the flourishing industries of this section, my dear. There are always plenty of men out of a job in this camp; conscience does n't come high, and the present market price for that sort of work is only about twenty-five dollars a head. Not unreasonable, all things considered, is it?"