“I shore will—presently,” he replied, grimly. “But y’u’ll wait till I’ve shot the lights out of this Isbel.”
“No!” she cried. “Take me away now.... An’ I’ll give in—I’ll be what y’u—want.... Y’u can do with me—as y’u like.”
Colter’s lofty frame leaped as if at the release of bursting blood. With a lunge he cleared the threshold to loom over her.
“Am I out of my haid, or are y’u?” he asked, in low, hoarse voice. His darkly corded face expressed extremest amaze.
“Jim, I mean it,” she whispered, edging an inch nearer him, her white face uplifted, her dark eyes unreadable in their eloquence and mystery. “I’ve no friend but y’u. I’ll be—yours.... I’m lost.... What does it matter? If y’u want me—take me NOW—before I kill myself.”
“Ellen Jorth, there’s somethin’ wrong aboot y’u,” he responded. “Did y’u tell the truth—when y’u denied ever bein’ a sweetheart of Simm Bruce?”
“Yes, I told y’u the truth.”
“Ahuh! An’ how do y’u account for layin’ me out with every dirty name y’u could give tongue to?”
“Oh, it was temper. I wanted to be let alone.”
“Temper! Wal, I reckon y’u’ve got one,” he retorted, grimly. “An’ I’m not shore y’u’re not crazy or lyin’. An hour ago I couldn’t touch y’u.”