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She fancied that several times Steve Jarrold's little eyes left the bottle, the faces of his companions, and even the pile of gold to quest for her face in the dark. "Come here," commanded Brodie. She started. He was calling to her! She got up and moved forward slowly. It was obey or be dragged to him.
Gratton stumbled and sagged, staggering like a drunken man. Brodie, with his rifle-barrel not six feet from Gratton's terror-stricken body, laughed again. "Stop!" Gloria shrilled. She broke away from Jarrold's grasp and ran toward Brodie. "You don't know what you are doing. You " "Close your trap, kid," Brodie thundered at her. "Unless you want the second bullet."
And you, Steve Jarrold, Ben Gaynor isn't here, but just the same you can take it from me that neither you nor any other of Swen Brodie's hangdogs is wanted in Ben Gaynor's house. Out you go." Jarrold's eyes slanted off to Gratton. Then, seeing himself ignored and forgotten, he shrugged his shoulders, pulled on his hat, and went out.
She saw three pairs of eyes staring at her, men's eyes, to her the eyes of wild animals; she read as clearly as if their messages had been in large, printed letters what lay in the mind of each: in the little grey man's, the judge's, speculation; in Steve Jarrold's, the jeers of a man of Jarrold's type at such a moment when they fall upon the bride; in Gratton's, quickened desire of her and triumphant cunning.
She gathered herself for the final supreme effort. She made her eyes grow bright through sheer force of will; she made her lips cease trembling and curve to a smile at the man; she even concealed her loathing and put a ringing note, almost of laughter, into her voice as she said softly: "I know you are not afraid and I think yes, I am sure, that you could whip him!" Steve Jarrold's eyes flashed.
King had heard well enough, but that "What!" broke from him explosively. "An' me, I'm a witness," said old Jim. "Steve Jarrold's another. They got the preacher there an' everything." He paused a moment and reflected, with puckered brows. "What do you think of her marryin' that swab, now? Think Ben's goin' to be pleased? Kind of surprising ain't it, Mark?"
It was Benny; he, too, had killed his man. "He had it coming," he said eagerly. "Any judge would say so. Stole every bit of grub when stealing grub is the same as cutting a man's throat, just like you said, Brodie. He had it coming. You done right." "You, Jarrold," demanded Brodie. "Got anything to say?" Again silence. Then again a voice, Jarrold's, saying hurriedly: "No. Benny's right.
He jabbered constantly, his mutterings at last coming to her in jumbled words as Benny drew on. He was talking about "gold," and he chuckled. He mentioned names, Brodie's and Jarrold's and Gratton's and another name, and he chuckled again. Gloria peered cautiously from the shelter of her rock. He was very near now, struggling with the smaller pack and his rifle and the heavy bundle in his sack.
Jarrold's big boots came clumping noisily across the rock floor. "Easy does it, Brodie," he shouted. "She ain't no kid, I tell you. She's a girl. That's Ben Gaynor's girl, the one Gratton wanted to marry, the one King took away from him. Keep your eye peeled; King would be around somewhere!" "Hidin' back there in the dark somewhere," muttered Benny.
A hard hand gripped her shoulder, jerking her to her feet. "You, friend," said Brodie. "What have you got to say about it?" She hung limp in his powerful hand, speechless. He dragged her closer to the firelight, peering at her with his red-flecked eyes. "Don't forget who she is," another voice was saying. Steve Jarrold's. "Remember what I told you."
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