Her scream and his uttered name stiffened him.
“Y’u will spare Jean Isbel!” she rang out. “Drop that gun-drop it!”
“Shore, Ellen.... Easy now. Remember your temper.... I’ll let Isbel off,” he panted, huskily, and all his body sank quiveringly to a crouch.
“Drop your gun! Don’t turn round.... Colter!—I’LL KILL Y’U!”
But even then he failed to divine the meaning and the spirit of her.
“Aw, now, Ellen,” he entreated, in louder, huskier tones, and as if dragged by fatal doubt of her still, he began to turn.
Crash! The rifle emptied its contents in Colter’s breast. All his body sprang up. He dropped the gun. Both hands fluttered toward her. And an awful surprise flashed over his face.
“So—help—me—God!” he whispered, with blood thick in his voice. Then darkly, as one groping, he reached for her with shaking hands. “Y’u—y’u white-throated hussy!... I’ll ...”
He grasped the quivering rifle barrel. Crash! She shot him again. As he swayed over her and fell she had to leap aside, and his clutching hand tore the rifle from her grasp. Then in convulsion he writhed, to heave on his back, and stretch out—a ghastly spectacle. Ellen backed away from it, her white arms wide, a slow horror blotting out the passion of her face.
Then from without came a shrill call and the sound of rapid footsteps. Ellen leaned against the wall, staring still at Colter. “Hey, Jim—what’s the shootin’?” called Springer, breathlessly.