"You're talking marriage." Joe's sneer maddens Hardin. "I tell you now to settle old scores with the lady whom I found in your hands to-night. If you don't, you're not going to the Senate."
Hardin gathers himself. Ah, that hand in the pocket!
"Don't make a mistake, Jedge," coldly interjects Woods. "Drop that gun. We're no bravos."
"I positively decline to have any bargain with you on my private matters. After you leave this room, you can look out for yourself, if you cross my path," hisses the Judge, his face pale and ghastly.
"Now, Jedge," Joe snaps out, "watch your own scalp. Hardin, I'll not dodge you. You are going on the wrong road. We split company here. But there's room enough in California for you and me. As for any 'shooting talk,' it's all bosh. You will get in a hot corner, unless you hear me out. I tell you now, to acknowledge your child by that woman. Save your election; save yourself, old man.
"She'll go off to France, but you've got to give her child a square name and a set-out."
"Never!" yells Hardin, forgetting himself, as with blind rage he points to the door.
"All right," says Joseph, coolly. "You'll never be senator till you send for me. You have fair warning. My cards are face-up on the table." Hardin, speechless with rage, sees him disappear.
Peyton and Joe Woods walk over the silent plaza, with the twinkling stars sweeping overhead. They exchange but few words. They seek the rest of their pillows. Joe's prayers consist of reloading his revolvers.
The last watcher in Mariposa is Hardin, the hate of hell in his heart. A glass of neat brandy is tossed off. He throws himself heavily on the bed. The world is a torment to him now. "On to Sacramento" is his last thought. Money, in hoards and heaps, will drown this rich booby's vain interference. For, legislatures sell senatorial honors in California openly like cabbage in a huckster's wagon, only at higher prices.