of
the most vindictive bitterness--as that of a tyrant forced to yield up
some despotic privilege which he has long wielded. True, it mattered
little to him now. The intended victims of his vile contrivance--
whatever it may have been--were likely to escape from his control in
another way; but, for all that, he seemed loth to part with even the
shadow of his former influence. He was not allowed much time for
reflection: scarce the opportunity to look round upon his Danites,
which, however, he did--glancing back as if desirous of retreating
towards them.

"Stan' yur groun'!" shouted the squatter in a tone of menace--"stan' yur
groun'! Don't dar to turn yur face from me! Ef ye do, ye'll only get
the bullet in yur back. Now, confess! or, by the etarnal God! you
hain't another second to sit in that seddle!" The quick threatening
manner in which the speaker grasped his gun, told Stebbins that
prevarication would be idle. In hurried speech, he replied: "You
committed no murder, Hickman Holt! I never said you did!"

"No! but you said you would; and you invented proofs o' it? Confess you
invented proofs, an' kep' 'em over my head like a black shadder?
Confess that!" Stebbins hesitated. "Quick, or ye're a dead man!"

"I did," muttered the guilty wretch, trembling as he spoke. "An' the
proofs wur false!"

"They were false--I confess it."

"Enuf!" cried Holt, drawing down his gun. "Enuf for me. An' now, ye
cowardly snake, ye may go wi' yur beauties yander. They'll not like ye
a bit the wuss for all this. Ye may go--an' carry yur conscience along
wi' ye--ef that 'll be any comfort to ye. Away wi' ye!"

"No!" exclaimed a voice from behind, and at the same time Wingrove was
seen stepping out from the rock. "Not yet adzactly. _I've_ got a score
to settle wi' the skunk. The man who'd plot that way agin another,
hain't ought to live. _You_ may let him off, Hick Holt, but _I_ won't;
nor wud you eyther, I reck'n, if you knew--"

"Knew what!" interrupted the squatter. "What he intended for your
daughter."

"He air my daughter's husband," rejoined Holt, in a tone that betokened
a mixture of bitterness and shame. "That was my fault, God forgi' me!"

"He ain't her husband--nothin' o' the kind. The marriage war a sham.
He war takin' poor Marian out thar for a diffrent purpose--an' Lilian
too."

"For what purpose?" cried Holt, a new light seeming suddenly to break
upon his mind.

"To make--" answered Win