And neither he nor the girl changed their positions relatively for a long time. At length, however, after peering into the woods, and listening, he remarked to the girl that he would be back in a moment, and then walked off around the spruces. No sooner had he disappeared--in fact, so quickly after-ward that it presupposed design instead of accident--than Riggs came running from the opposite side of the glade. He ran straight to the girl, who sprang to her feet. “I hid--two of the--horses,” he panted, husky with excitement. “I'll take--two saddles. You grab some grub. We'll run for it.” “No,” she cried, stepping back. “But it's not safe--for us--here,” he said, hurriedly, glancing all around. “I'll take you--home. I swear.... Not safe--I tell you--this gang's after me. Hurry!” He laid hold of two saddles, one with each hand. The moment had reddened his face, brightened his eyes, made his action strong. “I'm safer--here with this outlaw gang,” she replied. “You won't come!” His color began to lighten then, and his face to distort. He dropped his hold on the saddles. “Harve Riggs, I'd rather become a toy and a rag for these ruffians than spend an hour alone with you,” she flashed at him, in unquenchable hate. “I'll drag you!” He seized her, but could not hold her. Breaking away, she screamed. “Help!” That whitened his face, drove him to frenzy. Leaping forward, he struck her a hard blow across the mouth. It staggered her, and, tripping on a saddle, she fell. His hands flew to her throat, ready to choke her. But she lay still and held her tongue. Then he dragged her to her feet. “Hurry now--grab that pack--an' follow me.” Again Riggs laid hold of the two saddles. A desperate gleam, baleful and vainglorious, flashed over his face. He was living his one great adventure. The girl's eyes dilated. They looked beyond him. Her lips opened. “Scream again an' I'll kill you!” he cried, hoarsely and swiftly. The very opening of her lips had terrified Riggs. “Reckon one scream was enough,” spoke a voice, slow, but without the drawl, easy and cool, yet incalculable in some terrible sense. Riggs wheeled with inarticulate cry. Wilson stood a few paces off, with his gun half leveled, low down. His face seemed as usual, only his eyes held a quivering, light intensity, like boiling molten silver. “Girl, what made thet blood on your mouth?” “Riggs hit me!” she whispered. Then at something she feared or saw or divined she shrank back, dropped on her knees, and crawled into the spruce shelter. “Wal, Riggs, I'd invite you to draw if thet 'd be any use,” said Wilson. This speech was reflective, yet it hurried a little. Riggs could not draw nor move nor speak. He seemed turned to stone, except his jaw, which slowly fell. “Harve Riggs, gunman from down Missouri way,” continued the voice of incalculable intent, “reckon you've looked into a heap of gun-barrels in your day. Shore! Wal, look in this heah one!”