"Well--a girl he married. You may call her what you please. She had been called a good many things before he picked her up. Humph! Now that he has struck it rich, some one ought to let her know. She'd make the dollars fly." "It is not true! It is not _true_!" she murmured to herself, as if by the words she could drive away the possibility of it. He appeared to enjoy the sensation he had created. "It is true," he answered--"every word of it, and he has been keeping quiet about it, has he? Well, see here. You don't believe me--do you? Now, while I was waiting there at the door, a man came in to put your paralyzed partner to bed. The man was Jake Emmons--used to hang out at Spokane. He knew Lottie Snyder before this Overton did--and after Overton married her, too, I guess. You ask him anything you want to know of it. He can tell you--if he will." She did not answer. She feared, as he talked, that it was true; and she longed for him to go away, that she could think alone. The hot blood burned in her cheeks, as she remembered that night by the Twin Springs. The humiliation of it, if it proved true! "But, see here, 'Tana. I didn't come here to talk about your virtuous ranger. I want some money--enough to cut the country. It ain't any more than fair, anyway, that you divide with me, for if it hadn't been for that sneaking hound in the other room, half of this find would have been mine a year ago." "It will do more good where it is," she answered. "He did right not to trust you. And if he were able to walk, you would not be allowed to live many minutes within reach of him." "Oh, yes; I know he was trailing me," he answered, indifferently, "but it was no hard trick to keep out of his road. I suppose you let him know you approve of his feelings toward me." "Yes, I would load a gun for him to use on you if he were able to hold it," she answered, and he seemed to think her words amusing. "You have mighty little regard for your duty to me," he observed. "Duty? I can't owe you any duty when I never received any from you. I am nearly seventeen, and in all the years I remember you, I can't recall any good act you have ever done for me." "Nearly seventeen," and he smiled at her in the way she hated. "Didn't your new uncle, Haydon, tell you better than that? You are nearly eighteen years old." "Eighteen!" and she rose in astonishment. "I?" "You--though you don't look it. You always were small for your age, so I just told you a white lie about it in order to manage you better. But that is over; I don't care what you do in the future. All I want of you is money to get to South America; so fix it up for me." "I ought to refuse, and call them in to arrest you." "But you won't," he rejoined. "You can't afford it." He watched her, though, with some uncertainty, as she sat silent, thinking.