“Now you can’t say you’ve never been kissed,” Stewart said. His voice seemed a long way off. “But that was coming to you, so be game. Here!”
She felt something hard and cold and metallic thrust into her hand. He made her fingers close over it, hold it. The feel of the thing revived her. She opened her eyes. Stewart had given her his gun. He stood with his broad breast against her knee, and she looked up to see that old mocking smile on his face.
“Go ahead! Throw my gun on me! Be a thoroughbred!”
Madeline did not yet grasp his meaning.
“You can put me down in that quiet place on the hill—beside Monty Price.”
Madeline dropped the gun with a shuddering cry of horror. The sense of his words, the memory of Monty, the certainty that she would kill Stewart if she held the gun an instant longer, tortured the self-accusing cry from her.
Stewart stooped to pick up the weapon.
“You might have saved me a hell of a lot of trouble,” he said, with another flash of the mocking smile. “You’re beautiful and sweet and proud, but you’re no thoroughbred! Majesty Hammond, adios!”
Stewart leaped for the saddle of his horse, and with the flying mount crashed through the mesquites to disappear.