"I tell you you must not now. Go! Go! or I will never speak to you again."

He looked into her eyes, and seemed to feel a power that he must obey.
Half sullenly he drew back toward the door.

"But, Bess, this ain't the way to treat a fellow," he whined. "I came way
back here to take care of you. I tell you I love you, and I'm going to
have you. There ain't any other fellow going to run off with you--"

"Stop!" she cried tragically. "Don't you see you're not doing right? My
brother is just dead. I must have some time to mourn. It is only decent."
She was standing now with her back to the little cupboard behind whose
door lay the two pistols. Her hand was behind her on the wooden latch.

"You don't respect my trouble!" she said, catching her breath, and putting
her hand to her eyes. "I don't believe you care for me when you don't do
what I say."

The man was held at bay. He was almost conquered by her sign of tears. It
was a new phase of her to see her melt into weakness so. He was charmed.

"How long must I stay away?" he faltered.

She could scarcely speak, so desperate she felt. O if she dared but say,
"Forever," and shout it at him! She was desperate enough to try her
chances at shooting him if she but had the pistols, and was sure they were
loaded--a desperate chance indeed against the best shot on the Pacific
coast, and a desperado at that.