a bent sapling released, he sprang erect. "But I'll be the man--the
dog--you think me!"

He laid hold of her arm with rude, powerful clutch. One pull drew her
sliding half out of the saddle into his arms. She fell with her breast
against his, not wholly free of stirrups or horse, and there she hung,
utterly powerless. Maddened, writhing, she tore to release herself. All
she could accomplish was to twist herself, raise herself high enough to
see his face. That almost paralyzed her. Did he mean to kill her? Then
he wrapped his arms around her and crushed her tighter, closer to him.
She felt the pound of his heart; her own seemed to have frozen. Then he
pressed his burning lips to hers. It was a long, terrible kiss. She felt
him shake.

"Oh, Stewart! I--implore--you--let--me--go!" she whispered.

His white face loomed over hers. She closed her eyes. He rained kisses
upon her face, but no more upon her mouth. On her closed eyes, her hair,
her cheeks, her neck he pressed swift lips--lips that lost their fire
and grew cold. Then he released her, and, lifting and righting her in
the saddle, he still held her arm to keep her from falling.

For a moment Madeline sat on her horse with shut eyes. She dreaded the
light.

"Now you can't say you've never been kissed," Stewart said. His voice
seemed a long way off. "But that was coming to you, so be game. Here!"

She felt something hard and cold and metallic thrust into her hand. He
made her fingers close over it, hold it. The feel of the thing revived
her. She opened her eyes. Stewart had given her his gun. He stood with
his broad breast against her knee, and she looked up to see that old
mocking smile on his face.

"Go ahead! Throw my gun on me! Be a thoroughbred!"

Madeline did not yet grasp his meaning.

"You can put me down in that quiet place on the hill--beside Monty
Price."

Madeline dropped the gun with a shuddering cry of horror. The sense
of his words, the memory of Monty, the certainty that she would
kill Stewart if she held the gun an instant longer, tortured the
self-accusing cry from her.

Stewart stooped to pick up the weapon.

"You might have saved me a hell of a lot of trouble," he said, with
another flash of the mocking smile. "You're beautiful and sweet and
proud, but you're no thoroughbred! Majesty Hammond, adios!"

Stewart leaped for the saddle of his horse, and with the flying mount
crashed through the mesquites to disappear.

XXII. The S