“Ahuh! So y’u wish Jean Isbel would hop in heah, do y’u?” queried Colter. “Wal, if I had any pity on y’u, that’s done for it.”
A sweep of his long arm, so swift Ellen had no time to move, brought his hand in clutching contact with her. And the force of it flung her half across the cabin room, leaving the sleeve of her blouse in his grasp. Pantingly she put out that bared arm and her other to ward him off as he took long, slow strides toward her.
Jean rose half to his feet, dragged by almost ungovernable passion to risk all on one leap. But the distance was too great. Colter, blind as he was to all outward things, would hear, would see in time to make Jean’s effort futile. Shaking like a leaf, Jean sank back, eye again to the crack between the rafters.
Ellen did not retreat, nor scream, nor move. Every line of her body was instinct with fight, and the magnificent blaze of her eyes would have checked a less callous brute.
Colter’s big hand darted between Ellen’s arms and fastened in the front of her blouse. He did not try to hold her or draw her close. The unleashed passion of the man required violence. In one savage pull he tore off her blouse, exposing her white, rounded shoulders and heaving bosom, where instantly a wave of red burned upward.
Overcome by the tremendous violence and spirit of the rustler, Ellen sank to her knees, with blanched face and dilating eyes, trying with folded arms and trembling hand to hide her nudity.
At that moment the rapid beat of hoofs on the hard trail outside halted Colter in his tracks.
“Hell!” he exclaimed. “An’ who’s that?” With a fierce action he flung the remnants of Ellen’s blouse in her face and turned to leap out the door.
Jean saw Ellen catch the blouse and try to wrap it around her, while she sagged against the wall and stared at the door. The hoof beats pounded to a solid thumping halt just outside.
“Jim—thar’s hell to pay!” rasped out a panting voice.