“Suits me. I ain’t intendin’ to run wild.”
“Swear it,” she insisted.
He swore it.
Vicky, still with his hateful fingers about her wrist, opened the door and walked into the house. At her touch a second door swung. Before Dutch could recover from the surprise of what he saw, he had moved forward with the girl into a room.
A man was sitting at a desk writing. He looked up, astonished at this interruption. The man was Father Marston.
“He wants me to take him to Scot,” Vicky said simply.
Her explanation sufficed. Dutch, a many times killer, stood before him with a drawn revolver in his hand.
The minister rose. “So you brought him here instead. Well done, Vicky.”
The desperado ripped out a violent oath. “Make a fool of Sam Dutch, will you?”
His fingers moved up to the fleshy part of the girl’s forearm and tightened. She could not keep back a cry of pain.