"Dare I not? Kill! kill! Do you think no killing has even been done? Didn't you hear the ring of my rifle but a moment ago? Force rules the world—and here I am power! Along Back Load Trace there were weapons ready to come at your call, but here the tables are turned. Within beck are three sturdy ruffians and—a preacher. Not a namby-pamby, white-neckerchiefed nothing, but a man of nerve that can be relied on; yet his handiwork will last in spite of pride or prejudice. Strange to find a blacksmith here—but reserve to the winds!—you shall have a chance to test his workmanship, and see how you like his welding."
As he stepped forward she shrunk back with a hunted look in her eyes. At bay at last! His words fell like the stroke of a knife. And to her there was a terrible suggestiveness in them. At whom had his rifle been aimed a moment ago? She did not doubt him—she feared him. And the fear of her fear was overpowering. Still, she sought to keep a solid front. She would fight gamely to the last.
"Hands off me, sir; you have shown your hand too soon. I am to be wooed, perhaps, but cold as you find me, I like not your love-making. Satan himself would look like an angel of light by your side."
"We are growing nice," he said, with a mocking sneer. "A woman who lives by herself with the angelic trappers of Back Load Trace may well know in what guise the angel of darkness is likely to come. Mine you are, and as mine I claim you."
The moral strength of Edith Van Payne gave way, and left behind a horrible terror. She saw no way of escape but one, and, with a sudden spring, she sought to fling herself upon the animal that had borne her so gallantly from her captors the night before. She sought to do this, but was unsuccessful. A bound, and Endicott was by her side, and had caught her round the waist with a grasp of iron.
"Ho, there, Eben!" he shouted, and she heard footsteps beyond, in the direction in which he had pointed. With a mad fury she caught Endicott by the throat; she writhed from his grasp; she struck him with her clenched hand. Then as, despising her blows as though they were but strokes of a feather, he dashed at her, she gave one wild, piercing and despairing shriek, and, with the rapidity of light, leaped from the brink of the precipice.
And as she leaped the report of three rifles echoed her scream.
CHAPTER XV.
THREE SHOTS—AT LAST!