"All right. This is your hold-up, ma'am. I'll not move," he said,
almost genially.

She was uneasily aware that his surrender had been too tame. Strength
lay in that close-gripped salient jaw, in every line of the reckless
sardonic face, in the set of the lean muscular shoulders. She had
nerved herself to meet resistance, and instead he was yielding with
complacent good nature.

"Get out!" she commanded.

He stepped from the rig and offered her the reins. As she reached for
them his right hand shot out and caught the wrist that held the
weapon, his left encircled her waist and drew her to him. She gave a
little cry of fear and strained from him, fighting with all her lissom
strength to free herself.

For all the impression she made the girdle round her waist might have
been of steel. Without moving, he held her as she struggled, his brown
muscular fingers slowly tightening round her wrist. Her stifled cry
was of pain this time, and before it had died the revolver fell to the
ground from her paralyzed grip.

But her exclamation had been involuntary and born of the soft tender
flesh. The wild eyes that flamed into his asked for no quarter and
received none. He drew her slowly down toward him, inch by inch, till
she lay crushed and panting against him, but still unconquered. Though
he held the stiff resistant figure motionless she still flashed battle
at him.