“You cur! You’d force me to bargain myself to you!” she cried, fairly beside herself with righteous fury. “I thought you a man! You cur––you cowardly cur!”
Gowan turned from her and walked rapidly away along the cañon edge, his head hunched between his shoulders, his hands downstretched at his thighs, the fingers crooked convulsively.
“Oh!” gasped Genevieve. “You’ve driven him away! Call him back! We need him! He must go for help!”
The words shocked the girl out of her rash anger. Her flushed face whitened with fear. “Kid!” she screamed. “Come back, Kid! You must go to the ranch––bring the men!”
The cry of appeal should have brought him back to her on the run. It pierced high above the booming reverberations of the cañon. Yet he paid no heed. He neither halted nor paused nor even looked back. If anything, he hurried away faster than before.
“Kid! dear Kid! forgive me! Come back and help us!” shrieked the girl.
He kept on down along the cañon rim, his chin sunk on his breast, his downstretched hands bent like claws. She ran a little way after him; only to flutter back again, wringing her hands, distracted. “What shall we do? what shall we do?”
“Be quiet, dear––be quiet!” urged Genevieve. 352 “You’ve driven him away. We must do the best we can. You must go yourself. I can stay and watch––”
“No, no!” cried Isobel. “The way he looked at Lafe!––I dare not go! He may come back––and I not here!”
She knelt to place her trembling hand on Ashton’s forehead.