t of sparring for time: his anger was searching
about for a new vent. He was a just man, and he did not care to
start any thunder which was not based upon fairness. He had no wish
to go foraging in Spurlock's trunk. He had already shown the
covering envelope and its instructions to Ruth, and she had ignored
or misunderstood the warning. The boy was right. Ruth could not be
told now. There would be ultimate misery, but it would be needless
cruelty to give her a push toward it. But all these hours, trying
to teach the child wariness toward life, and the moment his back
was turned, this!

He was, perhaps, still dazed by the inner revelation--his own
interest in Ruth. The haste to send her upon her way now had but
one interpretation--the recognition of his own immediate danger,
the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in
offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had
happened--the love of a man who was in all probability older than
her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so
ridiculous.

He would talk to Spurlock, but from the bench; as a judge, not as a
chagrined lover. He dropped the key on the counterpane.

"If I could only make you realize what you have done," he said,
lamely.

"I know exactly what I have done," replied Spurlock. "She is my
lawful wife."

"I should have opened that letter in the beginning," said the
doctor. "But I happen to be an honest man myself. Had you died, I
should have fully obeyed the instructions on that envelope. You
will make her suffer."

"For every hurt she has, I shall have two. I did not lay any traps
for her. I asked her to marry me, and she consented."

"Ah, yes; that's all very well. But when she learns that you are a
fugitive from justice...."

"What proof have you that I am?"--was the return bolt.

"A knowledge of the ways of men. I don't know what you have done; I
don't want to know now. But God will punish you for what you have
done this day."

"As for that, I don't say. But I shall take care of Ruth, work for
her and fight for her." A prophecy which was to be fulfilled in a
singular way. "Given a chance, I can make bread and butter. I'm no
mollycoddle. I have only one question to ask you."

"And what might that be?"

"Will McClintock take us both?"

"You took that chance. There has never been a white woman at
McClintock's."

He paused, and not without malice. He was human. The pause
lengthened, and he ha