I saw the man who loved Mrs. Whitney, and I saw Mrs. Whitney herself,
and in my keeping, I knew, was all her chance for happiness, the one
hope that the future would make up to her for some of the horror of
the past. It would have been an easy thing to do; the most ordinary
caution was on my side. Whitney was far larger than I, and, even in
his weakened condition--I was weak myself--stronger, and he had a gun
that in a flash of light could blow me into eternity. And what would
happen then? Why, when he got back to Los Pinos they would hang him;
they would be only too glad of the chance; and his wife?--she would
die; I knew it--just go out like a flame from the unbearableness of
it all. And there wasn't one chance in a thousand that he wouldn't kill
me if I made a single step toward him. I had only to let him go and in
a few minutes he would be dead--as dead as his poor brute of a horse
would be within the hour. I felt already the cool relief that would be
mine when the black shadow of him was gone. I would ride into town and
think no more of it than if I had watched a tarantula die. You see, I
had it all reasoned out as clearly as could be; there was morality and
common sense, the welfare of other people, the man's own good, really,
and yet--well, I didn't do it."

"Didn't?" It was Jarrick who put the question a little breathlessly.

"No. I stepped toward him--so! One step, then another, very slowly,
hardly a foot at a time, and all the while I watched the infernal circle
of that gun, expecting it every minute to spit fire. I didn't want to
go; I went against my will. I was scared, too, mortally scared; my legs
were like lead--I had to think every time I lifted a foot--and in a
queer, crazy way I seemed to feel two people, a man and a woman, holding
me back, plucking at my sleeves. But I went. All the time I kept saying,
very steady and quiet: 'Don't shoot, Whitney! D'you hear! Don't shoot or
I'll kill you!' Wasn't it silly? Kill him! Why, he had me dead ten times
before I got to him. But I suppose some trace of sanity was knocking at
his drink-sodden brain, for he didn't shoot--just watched me, his red
eyes blinking. So! One step at a time--nearer and nearer--I could feel
the sweat on my forehead--and then I jumped. I had him by the legs, and
we went down in a heap. He shot then; they always do! But I had him tied
up with the rags of his own shirt in a trice. Then I brought him water
in my hat and let him drink it, dr