She had set the table for herself before he came in. He sat down at her place, his eyes bright upon her. Fumblingly she filled a plate with bacon and fried potatoes. She brought him another cup of coffee and placed the condensed milk and the sugar within his reach.
"Spoon," he said shortly.
She took the one from the cup he had just drunk from and handed it to him. He caught her wrist. The spoon fell with a clatter.
"You're so scared of me, you can't hardly breathe," he said calmly. "I don't like li'l girls to be scared of me, so you can just get you another plate and cup and saucer and sit down there on the other side of the table and eat your supper with me."
To eat supper with her uncle's murderer! Here was a grotesque jape of fate. It was unthinkable. Absolutely. The man divined something of what was passing in her mind.
"All in the line of business, li'l girl," he said, with a backward jerk of his head toward the front room where he had killed her uncle. "I didn't have a thing against him—personally."
"There were dishes here on the table," she babbled hysterically. "They found them here after—after—showing how he'd fed you first, and——"
"Sure he fed me," he interrupted. "I was hungry, hungrier than I am now. Alla same, you gotta eat supper with me. I want you to, and I always get what I want."
He twisted her wrist to emphasize his wish. She uttered a little moan. "Don't! Oh, don't hurt me any more! I'll do what you want."
Beaten, body and soul, she went to the cupboard and got herself plate and cup and saucer, knife and fork and spoon. Her six-shooter was in the next room, hanging in a holster on the wall. A loaded shotgun stood at the head of her bed. But it is doubtful that even if the weapon had been within short reach, she would have dared attempt to use either. Dan Slike had scared her too much.