“See?”
“Yes, I see,” she said, ringingly.
Passion wrenched him, transformed him. “All that—aboot leavin’ heah—with me—aboot givin’ in—was a lie!”
“No, Colter. It was the truth. I’ll go—yet—now—if y’u’ll spare—HIM!” She whispered the last word and made a slight movement of her hand toward the loft. “Girl!” he exploded, incredulously. “Y’u love this half-breed—this ISBEL! ... Y’u LOVE him!”
“With all my heart! ... Thank God! It has been my glory.... It might have been my salvation.... But now I’ll go to hell with y’u—if y’u’ll spare him.”
“Damn my soul!” rasped out the rustler, as if something of respect was wrung from that sordid deep of him. “Y’u—y’u woman! ... Jorth will turn over in his grave. He’d rise out of his grave if this Isbel got y’u.”
“Hurry! Hurry!” implored Ellen. “Springer may come back. I think I heard a call.”
“Wal, Ellen Jorth, I’ll not spare Isbel—nor y’u,” he returned, with dark and meaning leer, as he turned to ascend the ladder.
Jean Isbel, too, had reached the climax of his suspense. Gathering all his muscles in a knot he prepared to leap upon Colter as he mounted the ladder. But, Ellen Jorth screamed piercingly and snatched her rifle from its resting place and, cocking it, she held it forward and low.
“COLTER!”