Dave Davis stepped doggedly from the rock and turned with parted lips.
“Go—go now!” cried Bess. “Atone, if you can, for that other woman’s living death! Restore, if you can, her loved ones’ broken hearts! Recall from that grave out yonder the victim of your perfidy! Smile, too—if you will, at how nearly—” but her throat closed convulsively.
As soon as he had placed Berenice Morton on the ground, with Mrs. West administering to her, James rose to come to his sister’s aid. He was held spell-bound by her tragic attitude, until the storm of censure which she hurled at the passive man had spent its fury. Springing to the rock he placed a protecting arm about his sister. In a flash he had divined the reason of Henry West’s bitter enmity, and wondered how he had refrained from shooting the betrayer of girls.
Dave Davis tried in vain again to speak, but at the first words he uttered he was silenced by James saying hotly:
“You better go quickly—before I—before Henry West returns—or take the consequences!”
“Tell that Indian for me, please,” Davis sneered, as he turned to leave, “that this is his doing; that the score shall not remain unsettled—long!”
Without even glancing again at Bess, he strode forward and motioned to one of the perplexed Indians, who, after a few brief instructions, hastened toward the stables.
Bess aided Mrs. West and James in resuscitating the unconscious girl, and by the time she could walk and was removed to the house, all sign of Dave Davis had vanished.
Leaving James with her friend, Bess hurried up to her room, where no one might witness her uncontrollable passion. Not a tear came to moisten her burning eyes, not a sob to stifle the pounding blood at her temples. For several moments she paced rapidly back and forth, her hands shut tight, her nostrils wide with heavy breathing; then, falling upon her knees beside the bed, she buried her face in her arms.