lk. Good enough. Go far as you like.
I never did fancy the kind o' women that lick a man's hand. But you made
one mistake. I'm no doormat, an' nobody alive can wipe their feet on me.
You turned me down cold. You had the ol' man kick me outa my job as
foreman of the ranch. I told him an' you both I'd git even. But I don't
aim to rub it in. I'm gonna give you a chance to be Mrs. Doble. An' when
you marry me you git a man for a husband."

"I'll never marry you! Never! I'd rather be dead in my grave!" she broke
out passionately.

He went to the table, poured himself a drink, and gulped it down. His
laugh was sinister and mirthless.

"Please yorese'f, sweetheart," he jeered. "Only you won't be dead in
yore grave. You'll be keepin' house for Dug Doble. I'm not insistin' on
weddin' bells none. But women have their fancies an' I aim to be kind.
Take 'em or leave 'em."

She broke down and wept, her face in her hands. In her sheltered life she
had known only decent, clean-minded people. She did not know how to cope
with a man like this. The fear of him rose in her throat and choked her.
This dreadful thing he threatened could not be, she told herself. God
would not permit it. He would send her father or Dave Sanders or Bob Hart
to rescue her. And yet--when she looked at the man, big, gross, dominant,
flushed with drink and his triumph--the faith in her became a weak and
fluid stay for her soul. She collapsed like a child and sobbed.

Her wild alarm annoyed him. He was angered at her uncontrollable shudders
when he drew near. There was a savage desire in him to break through the
defense of her helplessness once for all. But his caution urged delay. He
must give her time to get accustomed to the idea of him. She had sense
enough to see that she must make the best of the business. When the
terror lifted from her mind she would be reasonable.

He repeated again that he was not going to hurt her if she met him
halfway, and to show good faith went out and left her alone.

The man sat down on a chopping-block outside and churned his hatred of
Sanders and Crawford. He spurred himself with drink, under its influence
recalling the injuries they had done him. His rage and passion simmered,
occasionally exploded into raucous curses. Once he strode into the house,
full of furious intent, but the eyes of the girl daunted him. They looked
at him as they might have looked at a tiger padding toward her.

He flung out of the house again, s