“You’ll be wise to-night,” he said, pouring the grains of tobacco into the paper.
“An’ the hills—after to-night.”
There was the hush of awe in the girl’s voice.
“After—to-night.”
Annette reached out. She caught the man’s arm with a jerk that shot his tobacco from its paper.
“Father—Pideau!”
The Wolf was grinning into twin black depths of horror. Annette’s grip on his arm tightened spasmodically.
“You shan’t! You crazy fool, I tell you, you shan’t!” she cried.
With his other hand the Wolf took hold of her. He tore her hand from his arm and crushed it violently in his great palm.
“You’re my woman, kid,” he said, in a tone that brooked no denial. “You’re mine, now. Ther’s not a thing to this life fer you but—me. I say it’s the hills—to-morrow!”