"Forgive me," he pleaded, trying to regain her hands. "I'll never
mention it again. I promise you that--never again."

"It's all right," she answered, softening under his passionate gaze.
"But it would be kind of you to avoid mentioning what I cannot help."

He was about to reply, but there was a sound of barking dogs from the
mountain. "Go quick!" She caught her breath. "Don't wait! That may
be them now. Don't let them kill you."

He did not stir. "You'd better go home," he said, calmly. "I don't
care a straw what becomes of me. I've had enough of the whole
business. I have got as much right to live as anybody else, and I will
not be driven from pillar to post by a gang of outlaws, headed by a
coward." He drew a revolver, and, half cocking it, carelessly twirled
the cylinder with his thumb. "I've got five thirty-two-caliber shots
here, and I think I can put some of them where they ought to go."

She pushed the revolver down with her hand. "No, no!" she cried, "you
must not be reckless."

"I am a pretty good shot," he went on, bitterly, "and Toot Wambush
shall be my first target, if I can pick him out. Then the rest may do
what they like with me. You go home. It will do you no good to be
seen with me."

She caught his arm. "If you don't go, I'll stay right here with you.
Hush! Listen! What was--? Great Heavens, they are coming. Go! Go!"