“That coyote! ... He lied aboot me, Jim Colter. And any man half a man would have known he lied.”
“Wal, Simm always bragged aboot y’u bein’ his girl,” asserted Colter. “An’ he wasn’t over—particular aboot details of your love-makin’.”
Ellen gazed out of the door, over Colter’s head, as if the forest out there was a refuge. She evidently sensed more about the man than appeared in his slow talk, in his slouching position. Her lips shut in a firm line, as if to hide their trembling and to still her passionate tongue. Jean, in his absorption, magnified his perceptions. Not yet was Ellen Jorth afraid of this man, but she feared the situation. Jean’s heart was at bursting pitch. All within him seemed chaos—a wreck of beliefs and convictions. Nothing was true. He would wake presently out of a nightmare. Yet, as surely as he quivered there, he felt the imminence of a great moment—a lightning flash—a thunderbolt—a balance struck.
Colter attended to the forgotten cigarette. He rolled it, lighted it, all the time with lowered, pondering head, and when he had puffed a cloud of smoke he suddenly looked up with face as hard as flint, eyes as fiery as molten steel.
“Wal, Ellen—how aboot Jean Isbel—our half-breed Nez Perce friend—who was shore seen handlin’ y’u familiar?” he drawled.
Ellen Jorth quivered as under a lash, and her brown face turned a dusty scarlet, that slowly receding left her pale.
“Damn y’u, Jim Colter!” she burst out, furiously. “I wish Jean Isbel would jump in that door—or down out of that loft! ... He killed Greaves for defiling my name! ... He’d kill Y’U for your dirty insult.... And I’d like to watch him do it.... Y’u cold-blooded Texan! Y’u thieving rustler! Y’u liar! ... Y’u lied aboot my father’s death. And I know why. Y’u stole my father’s gold.... An’ now y’u want me—y’u expect me to fall into your arms.... My Heaven! cain’t y’u tell a decent woman? Was your mother decent? Was your sister decent? ... Bah! I’m appealing to deafness. But y’u’ll HEAH this, Jim Colter! ... I’m not what yu think I am! I’m not the—the damned hussy y’u liars have made me out.... I’m a Jorth, alas! I’ve no home, no relatives, no friends! I’ve been forced to live my life with rustlers—vile men like y’u an’ Daggs an’ the rest of your like.... But I’ve been good! Do y’u heah that? ... I AM good—so help me God, y’u an’ all your rottenness cain’t make me bad!”
Colter lounged to his tall height and the laxity of the man vanished.
Vanished also was Jean Isbel’s suspended icy dread, the cold clogging of his fevered mind—vanished in a white, living, leaping flame.
Silently he drew his knife and lay there watching with the eyes of a wildcat. The instant Colter stepped far enough over toward the edge of the loft Jean meant to bound erect and plunge down upon him. But Jean could wait now. Colter had a gun at his hip. He must never have a chance to draw it.