"Take it," she told him, and waited. Perhaps he might have spared her had it not been for the look of deep contempt that bit into his vanity. He kissed her full on the lips. Instantly she woke to life, struck him on the cheek with her little, brown fist, and, with a sob of woe, turned and ran from the room. Weaver cursed himself in a fury of anger. He felt himself to be a hound because of the thing he had done, and he hated the instinct in him that drove him to master her. He had insulted and trampled on her. Yet he knew in his heart that he would have killed another man for doing it. [Illustration: SHE DREW BACK AS IF HE HAD STRUCK HER, ALL THE SPARKLING EAGERNESS DRIVEN FROM HER FACE. _Page 116_] CHAPTER IX PUNISHMENT The cattleman strode into the bunk house, where young Sanderson sat sulkily on a bed under the persuasion of Curly's rifle. "Have this boy's horse saddled and brought around, Curly." "You're the doctor," answered the cowboy promptly, and forthwith vanished outdoors to obey instructions. Phil looked sullenly at his captor, and waited for him to begin. One of his hands was under the pillow of the cot upon which he sat. His fingers circled the butt of a revolver he had found there, where one of the riders had chanced to leave it that morning. "I'm going to turn you loose to go home to the hills," Weaver told him. "And my sister?" "She stays here." "Then so do I." "That's up to you. There's no law against camping on the plains--that is, out of range of the Twin Star." "What are you going to do with her?" the boy demanded ominously. "If you ask no questions, I'll tell you no lies." "You'll let her go home with me--that's what you'll do," cried Phil. "I reckon not. You've got a license to feel lucky you're going yourself." "By God, I say you shall!" The cattleman's eyes took on their stony, snake-like look. His hand did not move by so much as an inch toward the scabbarded revolver at his side. "All right. Come a-shooting. I see you've got a gun under that pillow." The weapon leaped into sight. "You're right I have! I'll drill you full of holes as soon as wink." Weaver laughed contemptuously. "Begin pumping, son." "I'm going to take my sister home with me. You'll give orders to your men to that effect." "Guess again." "I tell you I'll shoot your hide full of holes if you don't!" cried the excited boy. "Oh, no, you won't." Buck Weaver was flirting with death, and he knew it. The very breath of it fanned his cheek. During that moment he lived gloriously; for he was a man who revelled in his sensations. He laughed into the very muzzle of the six-shooter that covered him. "Quit your play acting, boy," he jeered. "I give you one more chance before I blow out your brains." The cattleman put his unwounded hand into his trousers pocket and lounged forward, thrusting his smiling face against the cold rim of the blue barrel. "I reckon you'll scatter proper what few brains I've got."