The Texan paced to and fro beside the camp-fire with bent head, and hands locked behind him. But for the swinging gun he would have resembled a lanky farmer, coatless and hatless, with his brown vest open, his trousers stuck in the top of the high boots.
And neither he nor the girl changed their positions relatively for a long time. At length, however, after peering into the woods, and listening, he remarked to the girl that he would be back in a moment, and then walked off around the spruces.
No sooner had he disappeared—in fact, so quickly after-ward that it presupposed design instead of accident—than Riggs came running from the opposite side of the glade. He ran straight to the girl, who sprang to her feet.
“I hid—two of the—horses,” he panted, husky with excitement. “I'll take—two saddles. You grab some grub. We'll run for it.”
“No,” she cried, stepping back.
“But it's not safe—for us—here,” he said, hurriedly, glancing all around. “I'll take you—home. I swear.... Not safe—I tell you—this gang's after me. Hurry!”
He laid hold of two saddles, one with each hand. The moment had reddened his face, brightened his eyes, made his action strong.
“I'm safer—here with this outlaw gang,” she replied.
“You won't come!” His color began to lighten then, and his face to distort. He dropped his hold on the saddles.
“Harve Riggs, I'd rather become a toy and a rag for these ruffians than spend an hour alone with you,” she flashed at him, in unquenchable hate.