She staggered against the wall, her eyes dilating, her strong hands clenching, her face slowly whitening. She appeared shocked, half stunned, but showed no grief. “Jennie!” called Duane, sharply. “Oh--Duane!” came a halting reply. “Yes. Come out. Hurry!” She came out with uneven steps, seeing only him, and she stumbled over Bland's body. Duane caught her arm, swung her behind him. He feared the woman when she realized how she had been duped. His action was protective, and his movement toward the door equally as significant. “Duane,” cried Mrs. Bland. It was no time for talk. Duane edged on, keeping Jennie behind him. At that moment there was a pounding of iron-shod hoofs out in the lane. Kate Bland bounded to the door. When she turned back her amazement was changing to realization. “Where 're you taking Jen?” she cried, her voice like a man's. “Get out of my way,” replied Duane. His look perhaps, without speech, was enough for her. In an instant she was transformed into a fury. “You hound! All the time you were fooling me! You made love to me! You let me believe--you swore you loved me! Now I see what was queer about you. All for that girl! But you can't have her. You'll never leave here alive. Give me that girl! Let me--get at her! She'll never win any more men in this camp.” She was a powerful woman, and it took all Duane's strength to ward off her onslaughts. She clawed at Jennie over his upheld arm. Every second her fury increased. “HELP! HELP! HELP!” she shrieked, in a voice that must have penetrated to the remotest cabin in the valley. “Let go! Let go!” cried Duane, low and sharp. He still held his gun in his right hand, and it began to be hard for him to ward the woman off. His coolness had gone with her shriek for help. “Let go!” he repeated, and he shoved her fiercely. Suddenly she snatched a rifle off the wall and backed away, her strong hands fumbling at the lever. As she jerked it down, throwing a shell into the chamber and cocking the weapon, Duane leaped upon her. He struck up the rifle as it went off, the powder burning his face. “Jennie, run out! Get on a horse!” he said. Jennie flashed out of the door. With an iron grasp Duane held to the rifle-barrel. He had grasped it with his left hand, and he gave such a pull that he swung the crazed woman off the floor. But he could not loose her grip. She was as strong as he. “Kate! Let go!” He tried to intimidate her. She did not see his gun thrust in her face, or reason had given way to such an extent to passion that she did not care. She cursed. Her husband had used the same curses, and from her lips they seemed strange, unsexed, more deadly. Like a tigress she fought him; her face no longer resembled a woman's. The evil of that outlaw life, the wildness and rage, the meaning to kill, was even in such a moment terribly impressed upon Duane. He heard a cry from outside--a man's cry, hoarse and alarming.