Gilbert turned to Pell. "You heard--she's mine now. And any course you may take to stop her--" he warned. It was useless to say more. The manner in which young Jones spoke told the whole story of his feelings. Yet Pell tried to appear nonchalant and casual. "You haven't another drink around, have you?" he inquired. He still held his handkerchief to his wounded forehead. "That was a rather nasty one I got, you know." Gilbert, though he loathed him as a serpent, remembered that he was this creature's host, and stepped over to the fireplace where there was a flask with a little tequila still left. He offered Pell the bottle. "You were saying--?" Pell went on. He poured himself a stiff drink. "Something about leaving me, wasn't it?" It was plain to be seen that he was bluffing. "I'm sorry," swigging down what he had poured, "but I wasn't listening very closely. This thing here--" he tapped his wound. No one answered him, and he set down his glass. "Well?" to his wife. She faced him with a flame in her eyes. "Had I known you, I never would have married you. But now that I do know you, I could never live with you again. I loathe and despise you, with all the strength that is in me." "You want to leave me, eh?" He sneered as he stared at her. "And go with him?... Won't your reputation--?" "What do I care for my reputation?" she flared. "At least I shall have my self-respect. I never could keep that if I went back to you." "It's _your_ reputation, of course," Pell smiled. "You can do as you like with it." He turned fully toward her. "All right, I've no objection." "You're lying," Gilbert affirmed. Pell's tongue rolled round in his cheek. "I don't blame you for thinking so. _You_ haven't been shot to-day. You should try it sometime. It changes one's viewpoint surprisingly." His voice seemed to lose its hardness for a moment; there was a note of self-pity in it. "But you said--" Gilbert began. Pell's whole manner changed, and the look of a wounded animal came into his eyes. "A man says many things in anger that he doesn't mean," was his own extenuation. "Haven't you ever made the same mistake yourself, Jones? I'm sure you have. There's no use getting excited." He put up a hand. "Here we are, we three. She is my wife. But she doesn't love me, nor do I love her. She does love you. What is the best way out for all of us?" A new Morgan Pell! They could scarcely believe the metamorphosis. "You'd give her up?" Gilbert said. The other looked down, and the point of his boot drew a little ring on the floor. "I can't hold her," he said, "if she doesn't want to be held, can I?" "You don't intend--" "To fight you?" Pell looked him squarely in the eye. "I do not. I've had all the fighting I want for one day. Now, my own course is simple. I have merely to go back to New York and forget that either of you ever existed. But your problem is more difficult. It's after eight. You've lost the ranch. And you have no money."