ed in
her brain. She saw nothing but that evil, grinning face, hideous and
menacing. For a moment murder boiled up in her, red-hot and sinister.
If she could kill him now as he stood jeering at her--drive the blade
into that thick bull neck....

The madness passed. She could not do it even if it were within
her power. The urge to kill was not strong enough. It was not
overwhelming. And in the next thought she knew, too, that she could
not kill herself either. The blind need to live, the animal impulse of
self-preservation, at whatever cost, whatever shame, was as yet more
powerful than the horror of the fate impending.

She flung the knife down into the snow in a fury of disgust and
self-contempt.

His head went back in a characteristic roar of revolting mirth. He had
won. Bully West knew how to conquer 'em, no matter how wild they were.

With feet dragging, head drooped, and spirits at the zero hour, Jessie
moved down a ravine into sight of a cabin. Smoke rose from the chimney
languidly.

"Home," announced West.

To the girl, at the edge of desperation, that log house appeared as
the grave of her youth. All the pride and glory and joy that had made
life so vital a thing were to be buried here. When next she came out
into the sunlight she would be a broken creature--the property of this
horrible caricature of a man.

Her captor opened the door and pushed the girl inside.

She stood on the threshold, eyes dilating, heart suddenly athrob with
hope.

A man sitting on a stool before the open fire turned his head to see
who had come in.

CHAPTER XXII

"MY DAMN PRETTY LI'L' HIGH-STEPPIN' SQUAW"

The man on the stool was Whaley.

One glance at the girl and one at West's triumphant gargoyle grin was
enough. He understood the situation better than words could tell it.

To Jessie, at this critical moment of her life, even Whaley seemed a
God-send. She pushed across the room awkwardly, not waiting to free
herself of the webs packed with snow. In the dusky eyes there was a
cry for help.

"Save me from him!" she cried simply, as a child might have done. "You
will, won't you?"

The black eyebrows in the cold, white face drew to a line. The
gambler's gaze, expressionless as a blank wall, met hers steadily.

"Why don't you send for your friend Morse?" he asked. "He's in that
business. I ain't."

It was as though he had struck her in the face. The eyes that clung to
his we're horror-filled. Did there re