A GUN ROARS
The two men glared at each other, silently, their faces distorted to
gargoyles in the leaping and uncertain light. Wary, vigilant, tense,
they faced each other as might jungle tigers waiting for the best
moment to attack.
There was a chance for the situation to adjust itself without
bloodshed. Whaley could not afford to kill and Morse had no desire to
force his hand.
Jessie's fear outran her judgment. She saw the menace of the revolver
trained on her rescuer and thought the gambler was about to fire. She
leaped for the weapon, and so precipitated what she dreaded.
The gun roared. A bullet flew past Morse and buried itself in a log.
Next instant, clinging with both hands to Whaley's wrist, Jessie found
herself being tossed to and fro as the man struggled to free his arm.
Flung at a tangent against the wall, she fell at the foot of the couch
where Fergus slept.
Again the blaze and roar of the revolver filled the room. Morse
plunged head down at his enemy, still carrying the log he had used as
a battering-ram. It caught the gambler at that point of the stomach
known as the solar plexus. Whaley went down and out of consciousness
like an ox that has been pole-axed.
Tom picked up the revolver and dropped it into the pocket of his fur
coat. He stooped to make sure that his foe was beyond the power of
doing damage. Then he lifted Jessie from the corner where she lay
huddled.
"Hurt?" he asked.
The girl shuddered. "No. Is he--is he killed?"
"Wind knocked out of him. Nothing more."
"He didn't hit you?"
There was the ghost of a smile in his eyes. "No, I hit him."
"He was horrid. I--I--" Again a little shiver ran through her body.
She felt very weak at the knees and caught for a moment at the lapel
of his coat to steady herself. Neither of them was conscious of the
fact that she was in his arms, clinging to him while she won back
self-control.
"It's all right now. Don't worry. Lucky I came back to show Blandoine
which furs to take."
"If you hadn't--" She drew a ragged breath that was half a sob.
Morse loved her the more for the strain of feminine hysteria that made
her for the moment a soft and tender child to be comforted. He had
known her competent, savage, disdainful, one in whom vital and
passionate life flowed quick. He had never before seen the weakness in
her reaching out to strength. That by sheer luck it was _his_ power to
which she clung filled him with deep delight.
He began to discount his joy lest she do it instead. His arm fell away
from her waist.
"I 'most wrecked the house," he said with a humorous glance at the
door. "I don't always bring one o' the walls with me when I come into
a room."
"He bolted the door," she explained rather needlessly. "He wouldn't
let me out."
"I heard you call," he answered, without much more point.
She glanced at the man lying on the floor. "You don't think he might
be--" She stopped, unwilling to use the word.
Tom knelt beside him and felt his heart.
"It's beating," he said. And added quickly, "His eyes are open."
It was true. The cold, fishy eyes had flickered open and were taking
stock of the situation. The gambler instantly chose his line of
defense. He spoke, presently.
"What in the devil was bitin' you, Morse? Just because I was jokin'
the girl, you come rampagin' in and knock me galley west with a big
club. I'll not stand for that. Soon as I'm fit to handle myself, you
and I'll have a settlement."
"Get up and get out," ordered the younger man.
"When I get good and ready. Don't try to run on me, young fellow. Some
other fools have found that dangerous."
Whaley sat up, groaned, and pressed his hands upon the abdomen at the
point where he had been struck.
The reddish-brown glint in the eyes of Morse advertised the cold rage
of the Montanan. He caught the gambler by the collar and pulled him to
his feet.
"Get out, you yellow wolf!" he repeated in a low, savage voice.
The white-faced trader was still wobbly on his feet. He felt both
sore and sick at the pit of his stomach, in no mood for any further
altercation with this hard-hitting athlete. But he would not go
without saving his face.
"I don't know what business you've got to order me out--unless--" His
gaze included the girl for a moment, and the insult of his leer was
unmistakable.
Morse caught him by the scruff of the neck, ran him out of the room,
and flung him down the steps into the road. The gambler tripped on the
long buffalo coat he was wearing and rolled over in the snow. Slowly
he got to his feet and locked eyes with the other.
Rage almost choked his words. "You'll be sorry for this one o' these
days, Morse. I'll get you right. Nobody has ever put one over on Poker
Whaley and nobody ever will. Don't forget that."
Tom Morse wasted no words. He stood silently on the steps, a splendid,
supple figure of menacing power, and watched his foe pass down the
road. There was in him a cruel and passionate desire to take the
gambler and break him with his hands, to beat him till he crawled away
a weak and wounded creature fit for a hospital. He clamped his teeth
hard and fought down the impulse.
Presently he turned and walked slowly back into the house. His face
was still set and his hands clenched. He knew that if Whaley had hurt
Jessie, he would have killed him with his naked fingers.
"You can't stay here. Where do you want me to take you?" he asked, and
his cold hardness reminded her of the Tom Morse who had led her to the
whip one other night.
She did not know that inside he was a caldron of emotion and that it
was only by freezing himself he could keep down the volcanic eruption.
"I'll go to Susie Lemoine's," she said in a small, obedient voice.
With his hands in his pockets he stood and let he find a fur coat and
slip into it. He had a sense of frustration. He wanted to let go of
himself and tell all that was in his torrid heart. Instead, he encased
himself in ice and drove her farther from him.
They walked down the road side by side, neither of them speaking. She
too was a victim of chaotic feeling. It would be long before she could
forget how he had broken through the door and saved her.
But she could not find the words to tell him so. They parted at the
door of Lemoine's cabin with a chill "Good-night" that left them both
unhappy and dissatisfied.