Deep
within me, some motive, some purpose, was being born in travail. I did
not know what, but instinctively I feared Sally. I feared her because I
loved her. My wits came back to combat my passion. This hazel-eyed girl,
soft, fragile creature, might be harder to move than the Ranger. But
could she divine a motive scarcely yet formed in my brain? Suddenly I
became cool, with craft to conceal.
"Oh, Russ! What's the matter with you?" she queried quickly. "Can't
Diane and Steele, you and I ride away from this bloody, bad country? Our
own lives, our happiness, come first, do they not?"
"They ought to, I suppose," I muttered, fighting against the insidious
sweetness of her. I knew then I must keep my lips shut or betray myself.
"You look so strange. Russ, I wouldn't want you to kiss me with that
mouth. Thin, shut lips--smile! Soften and kiss me! Oh, you're so cold,
strange! You chill me!"
"Dear child, I'm badly shaken," I said. "Don't expect me to be natural
yet. There are things you can't guess. So much depended upon--Oh, never
mind! I'll go now. I want to be alone, to think things out. Let me go,
Sally."
She held me only the tighter, tried to pull my face around. How
intuitively keen women were.
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