Ashton dropped his hands, half clenched, to his sides. Beads of cold sweat were gathering and running down his drawn face.
“I can’t!” he whispered. “I––I can’t!” 278
“Not if I agree to get out of the way and give you clear running?” tempted Gowan.
“You would?”
“Yes. You see how much I like her. You rid her of him, and I’ll let you have her for doing it.”
Ashton shuddered.
“Think it over––and watch him mighty close tonight,” advised the tempter.
A red flush leaped into Ashton’s face. Gowan struck his spurs into his horse’s flank and loped away.
Ashton stood motionless. The puncher disappeared down the mountain side. The twilight faded and darkness closed down about the tortured man. He stood there motionless, his convulsed face alternately flushing and paling, his eyes now clouding, now burning with rage and hate.
When at last he returned to the camp he kept beyond the circle of firelight. Hurriedly he rolled up in his blankets for the night, muttering something about his head and his need of rest for the next day’s work. The others accepted the explanation without question. They formed a cheerful domestic group about the fire from which he was shut out by his passion.