"Hain't no call fer ye to be so damned ornery. I hain't a-goin' to tech ye--yit. We'll be together quite a spell, I reckon--till I gits sick o' havin' ye round. If I wanted ye I could jump ye easy from hyar. I'm some spry, if I be big. But ye needn't be skeered, I'm tellin' ye. I hain't a-goin' to tech ye--yit." The final monosyllable was charged with sinister import, but the man's assurance of her present safety was, somehow, convincing, and she accepted it with the emotional gratitude of one sentenced to death who receives a reprieve. She sank down on the stone bench near the crevice, and watched her jailer with unwavering attention, while he produced a candle from his pocket, and lighted it, and had recourse again to the stone jug of whiskey, which had remained by the bed of boughs. To-night, the fiery drams made him garrulous, and he discussed his affairs, his hopes, and plans, with a freedom that showed how complete was his expectation of retaining the girl in his power. Thus, Plutina learned of the search being made for her, which was now the active cause in changing the outlaw's purpose in the immediate disposal of his prisoner. "I was aimin' to lay low with ye right hyar," he explained, after his fourth sup of the spirits. "But I reckon hit's a goin' to be a heap safer to skedaddle. I ain't a-wantin' no damned dawgs fer to chaw me up. So I'm goin' to mosey over Bull Head t'-morrer. You-all 'll go 'long, nice an' peaceable--er ye'll be drug." He spoke with a snarl now. "Ye'll know hit, when I once git ye cross the state line--cuss ye! Ye'll find I hain't so damned shy, arter all!"