"Henry!"

"That name means nothing to me I've forgotten it. The worlds has forgotten it."

"Henry, I implore you to keep cool--to give me five minutes for talk--"

"No, not one. I know your cunning tongue!"

"For the sake of the days when you loved me, my brother. For the sake of the days when you used to wheel my chair and be kind to me."

"You're wasting your time. You're torturing us both for nothing.

Donnegan, my will is a rock. It won't change."

And drawing closer his right hand gripped his gun and the trembling pa.s.sion of the gunfighter set him shuddering.

"You're armed, Garry. Go for your gun!"

"No, no!"

"Then I'll give you cause to fight."

And as he spoke, he drew back his ma.s.sive arm and with his open hand smote Donnegan heavily across the face. The weight of that blow crushed the little man against the wall.

"Your gun!" cried Lord Nick, swaying from side to side as the pa.s.sion choked him.

Donnegan fell upon his knees and raised his arms.

"G.o.d have mercy on me, and on yourself!"

At that the blackness cleared slowly on the face of the big man; he thrust his revolver into the holster.

"This time," he said, "there's no death. But sooner or later we meet, Donnegan, and then, I swear by all that lives, I'll shoot you down--without mercy--like a mad dog. You've robbed me; you've hounded me: you've killed my men: you've taken the heart of the woman I love.

And now nothing can save you from the end."

He turned on his heel and left the room.

And Donnegan remained kneeling, holding a stained handkerchief to his face.

All at once his strength seemed to desert him like a tree chopped at the root, and he wilted down against the wall with closed eyes.

But the music still came out of the throat and the heart of Lou, and it entered the room and came into the ears of Donnegan. He became aware that there was a strength beyond himself which had sustained him, and then he knew it had been the singing of Lou from first to last which had kept the murder out of his own heart and restrained the hand of Lord Nick.

Perhaps of all Donnegan's life, this was the first moment of true humility.

43

One thing was now clear. He must not remain in The Corner unless he was prepared for Lord Nick again: and in a third meeting guns must be drawn.

From that greater sin he shrank, and prepared to leave. His order to George made the big man's eyes widen, but George had long since pa.s.sed the point where he cared to question the decision of his master. He began to build the packs.

As for Donnegan, he could see that there was little to be won by remaining. That would save Landis to Lou Macon, to be sure, but after all, he was beginning to wonder if it were not better to let the big fellow go back to his own kind--Lebrun and the rest. For if it needed compulsion to keep him with Lou now, might it not be the same story hereafter?

Indeed, Donnegan began to feel that all his labor in The Corner had been running on a treadmill. It had all been grouped about the main purpose, which was to keep Landis with the girl. To do that now he must be prepared to face Nick again; and to face Nick meant the bringing of the guilt of fratricide upon the head of one of them. There only remained flight. He saw at last that he had been fighting blindly from the first. He had won a girl whom he did not love--though doubtless her liking was only the most fickle fancy. And she for whom he would have died he had taught to hate him. It was a grim summing up. Donnegan walked the room whistling softly to himself as he checked up his accounts.

One thing at least he had done; he had taken the joy out of his life forever.

And here, answering a rap at the door, he opened it upon Lou Macon. She wore a dress of some very soft material. It was a pale blue--faded, no doubt--but the color blended exquisitely with her hair and with the flush of her face. It came to Donnegan that it was an unnecessary cruelty of chance that made him see the girl lovelier than he had ever seen her before at the very moment when he was surrendering the last shadow of a claim upon her.

And it hurt him, also, to see the freshness of her face, the clear eyes; and to hear her smooth, untroubled voice. She had lived untouched by anything save the sunshine in The Corner.

Her glance flicked across his face and then fluttered down, and her color increased guiltily.

"I have come to ask you a favor," she said.

"Step in," said Donnegan, recovering his poise at length.

At this, she looked past him, and her eyes widened a little. There was an imperceptible shrug of her shoulders, as though the very thought of entering this cabin horrified her. And Donnegan had to bear that look as well.

"I'll stay here; I haven't much to say. It's a small thing."

"Large or small," said Donnegan eagerly. "Tell me!"

"My father has asked me to take a letter for him down to the town and mail it. I--I understand that it would be dangerous for me to go alone.

Will you walk with me?"

And Donnegan turned cold. Go down into The Corner? Where by five chances out of ten he must meet his brother in the street?

"I can do better still," he said, smiling. "I'll have George take the letter down for you."

"Thank you. But you see, father would not trust it to anyone save me. I asked him; he was very firm about it."

"Tush! I would trust George with my life."

"Yes, yes It is not what I wish--but my father rarely changes his mind."

Perspiration beaded the forehead of Donnegan. Was there no way to evade this easy request?

"You see," he faltered, "I should be glad to go--"

She raised her eyes slowly.

"But I am terribly busy this morning."

She did not answer, but half of her color left her face.

"Upon my word of honor there is no danger to a woman in the town."