Bess half crouched against the logs of the wall, almost frenzied with fear. The howling, shrieking wind; the crashing trees, the awful lightning without. Within, a danger greater and more terrible than any storm could be! Her hand, which had clutched at her heart, fell slowly by her side. What was that her fingers touched that instantly filled her heart with hope and sent the blood throbbing through the congealed veins! She closed her hand firmly over the handle of her Smith and Wesson, the gun which had so long lain in its hidden pocket all unneeded. But now, now—! Could it be that even the shadow of love for this man had ever possessed her? Had she not long ago seen and felt the latent repulsion? Was this transformation made by just retribution or an avenging God? A feeling almost of pity swept over her at the horrible change which she beheld in the man. Tears of sadness at the sight of the wreck filled her eyes and made her lips tremble. The man slowly turned and looked at Bess before she realized that he had stirred, so deeply was she engrossed.
“Ah—little girl, you are sorry for me; you do still care for me; I see it—I feel it, know it,” came in a voice at first soft and caressing in its tenderness, then swelling with a crescendo of hope till it fairly shouted in its intensity.
He made a swift, decisive step toward her, but was checked as suddenly by her firm, hard outburst. “Stop—do not come one step nearer! You once saw me kill a rattlesnake! I can—do—it again!” Her teeth shut hard and her wondrous eyes narrowed to tiny slits, as with a steady, determined movement she drew the pistol from its pocket and rested her hand deliberately across her left arm. So she stood, fearlessly, confidently. No words were needed for the man to know how utterly lost was his recrudescent hope.
“Bess Fletcher, I am not unarmed,” he said threateningly. “I—could—kill you!” Not even her eyelash quivered as her steady gaze held his own. A faint, scornful smile played for an instant upon her lips. Nor yet did she move when she heard from out the storm Mauchacho’s loud neigh in response to another horse’s call. Davis suddenly turned to the window and his face grew dark. “West!” he cried hoarsely, and wrenched the door open, attempting to escape under cover of the small firs. He was too late. In the dim light of the swiftly abating storm Bess saw a wide, swaying rope suddenly descend and curl its quivering folds securely about the fugitive’s body, pinioning him within its tightening hold.
West leaped from his horse. Without a word he secured the lariat about his captive. Bess came hurrying to him, her pistol still in her hand.
He caught sight of the weapon.
“I came too soon,” he said. “You would have used my gift.”
“Oh—Henry—you came just in time,” sobbed the girl. “What are you going to do,” she demanded as West told her to get on her horse, at the same time lifting the helpless man with superhuman strength and thrusting him into his own saddle.
The new-comer grasped his horse by the bridle and started with long, rapid strides down the gulch, followed by Mauchacho and his helpless rider. The strain of the past hour had completely unnerved the girl, who with difficulty held her seat in the saddle. On walked the determined man leading the way. On rode the captive in dogged silence, while Bess followed scarcely knowing whither nor why.
The storm with all its fury and havoc had passed. Faint flashes beyond the distant mountains showed where its wrath was weakening. Twilight, soft and mystical was settling on the hills and weirdly filling the expanse of the Big Draw. Like the gleam of a great evil eye shone in the distance the fire of the branders, which the wind had fanned into glowing coals. As they neared this spot Davis spoke for the first time.