She swayed back from the door against the wall in singular, softened poise, as if all the steel had melted out of her body. And as Colter’s tall shadow fell across the threshold Jean Isbel felt himself staring with eyeballs that ached—straining incredulous sight at this woman who in a few seconds had bewildered his senses with her transfiguration. He saw but could not comprehend.
“Jim—I heard—all Springer told y’u,” she said. The look of her dumfounded Colter and her voice seemed to shake him visibly.
“Suppose y’u did. What then?” he demanded, harshly, as he halted with one booted foot over the threshold. Malignant and forceful, he eyed her darkly, doubtfully.
“I’m afraid,” she whispered.
“What of? Me?”
“No. Of—of Jean Isbel. He might kill y’u and—then where would I be?”
“Wal, I’m damned!” ejaculated the rustler. “What’s got into y’u?” He moved to enter, but a sort of fascination bound him.
“Jim, I hated y’u a moment ago,” she burst out. “But now—with that Jean Isbel somewhere near—hidin’—watchin’ to kill y’u—an’ maybe me, too—I—I don’t hate y’u any more.... Take me away.”
“Girl, have y’u lost your nerve?” he demanded.
“My God! Colter—cain’t y’u see?” she implored. “Won’t y’u take me away?”