"Yes, but what of it?"
Again the other cleared his throat and spoke with painstaking and
judicial slowness. "Why, I may say, nothing of it, except, ah,
according to your own reasoning, there is nothing to prevent your
getting out, hitting the frost, so to speak, for a matter of ten miles.
You can make it all right."
Womble looked with quick suspicion at Theresa and caught in her eyes a
glint of pleased surprise.
"Well?" he demanded of her.
She hesitated, and a surge of anger darkened his face. He turned upon
Messner.
"Enough of this. You can't stop here."
"Yes, I can."
"I won't let you." Womble squared his shoulders. "I'm running things."
"I'll stay anyway," the other persisted.
"I'll put you out."
"I'll come back."
Womble stopped a moment to steady his voice and control himself. Then
he spoke slowly, in a low, tense voice.
"Look here, Messner, if you refuse to get out, I'll thrash you. This
isn't California. I'll beat you to a jelly with my two fists."
Messner shrugged his shoulders. "If you do, I'll call a miners' meeting
and see you strung up to the nearest tree. As you said, this is not
California. They're a simple folk, these miners, and all I'll have to
do will be to show them the marks of the beating, tell them the truth
about you, and present my claim for my wife."
The woman attempted to speak, but Womble turned upon her fiercely.
"You keep out of this," he cried.