“Ellen Jorth, you know your father’s in with this Hash Knife Gang of rustlers,” thundered Isbel.
“Shore,” she replied, with the cool, easy, careless defiance of a Texan.
“You know he’s got this Daggs to lead his faction against the Isbels?”
“Shore.”
“You know this talk of sheepmen buckin’ the cattlemen is all a blind?”
“Shore,” reiterated Ellen.
Isbel gazed darkly down upon her. With his anger spent for the moment, he appeared ready to end the interview. But he seemed fascinated by the strange look of her, by the incomprehensible something she emanated. Havoc gleamed in his pale, set face. He shook his dark head and his broad hand went to his breast.
“To think I fell in love with such as you!” he exclaimed, and his other hand swept out in a tragic gesture of helpless pathos and impotence.
The hell Isbel had hinted at now possessed Ellen—body, mind, and soul. Disgraced, scorned by an Isbel! Yet loved by him! In that divination there flamed up a wild, fierce passion to hurt, to rend, to flay, to fling back upon him a stinging agony. Her thought flew upon her like whips. Pride of the Jorths! Pride of the old Texan blue blood! It lay dead at her feet, killed by the scornful words of the last of that family to whom she owed her degradation. Daughter of a horse thief and rustler! Dark and evil and grim set the forces within her, accepting her fate, damning her enemies, true to the blood of the Jorths. The sins of the father must be visited upon the daughter.
“Shore y’u might have had me—that day on the Rim—if y’u hadn’t told your name,” she said, mockingly, and she gazed into his eyes with all the mystery of a woman’s nature.