Part 41 (2/2)
”Now, Pete. Go to him,” urged Holt wildly.
But before Swift.w.a.ter could move, before the great fist of Macdonald could smash down upon the bleeding face upturned to his, a sharp blow struck the flesh of the raised forearm and for the moment stunned the muscles. The Scotch-Canadian lifted a countenance drunk with rage, pa.s.sion-tossed.
Slowly the light of reason came back into his eyes. Sheba was standing before him, his rifle in her hand. She had struck him with the b.u.t.t of it.
”Don't touch him! Don't you dare touch him!” she challenged.
He looked at her long, then let his eyes fall to the battered face of his enemy. Drunkenly he got to his feet and leaned against a willow.
His forces were spent, his muscles weighted as with lead. But it was not this alone that made his breath come short and raggedly.
Sheba had flung herself down beside her lover. She had caught him tightly in her arms so that his disfigured face lay against her warm bosom. In the eyes lifted to those of the mine-owner was an unconquerable defiance.
”He's mine--mine, you murderer,” she panted fiercely. ”If you kill him, you must kill me first.”
The man she had once promised to marry was looking at a different woman from the girl he had known. The soft, shy youth of her was gone. She was a forest mother of the wilds ready to fight for her young, a wife ready to go to the stake for the husband of her choice. An emotion primitive and poignant had transformed her.
His eyes burned at her the question his parched lips and throat could scarcely utter. ”So you ... love him?”
But though it was in form a question he knew already the answer. For the first time in his life he began to taste the bitterness of defeat.
Always he had won what he coveted by brutal force or his stark will. But it was beyond him to compel the love of a girl who had given her heart to another.
”Yes,” she answered.
Her hair in two thick braids was flung across her shoulders, her dark head thrown back proudly from the rounded throat.
Macdonald smiled, but there was no mirth in his savage eyes. ”Do you know what I want with him--why I have come to get him?”
”No.”
”I've come to take him back to Kusiak to be hanged because he murdered Milton, the bank cas.h.i.+er.”
The eyes of the woman blazed at him. ”Are you mad?”
”It's the truth.” Macdonald's voice was curt and harsh. ”He and Holt were robbing the bank when Milton came back from the dance at the club.
The cowards shot down the old man like a dog. They'll hang for it if it costs me my last penny, so help me G.o.d.”
”You say it's the truth,” she retorted scornfully. ”Do you think I don't know you now--how you twist and distort facts to suit your ends? How long is it since your jackal had him arrested for a.s.saulting you--when Wally Selfridge knew--and you knew--that he had risked his life for you and had saved yours by bringing you to Diane's after he had bandaged your wounds?”
”That was different. It was part of the game of politics we were playing.”
”You admit that you and your friends lied then. Is it like you could persuade me that you're telling the truth now?”
The big Alaskan shrugged. ”Believe it or not as you like. Anyhow, he's going back with me to Kusiak--and Holt, too, if he's here.”
An excited cackle cut into the conversation, followed by a drawling announcement from the window. ”Your old tillic.u.m is right here, Mac.
What's the use of waiting? Why don't you have your hanging-bee now?”
CHAPTER x.x.x
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