s action corresponded
with his mind. Slowly his hand moved toward his gun. He drew it, threw
it aloft. And then all the terrible evil in the man flamed forth. But
as he deliberately drew down on the preacher Blicky leaped forward and
knocked up the gun. Flash and report followed; the discharge went into
the roof. Blicky grasped Kells's arm and threw his weight upon it to
keep it down.

"I fetched thet parson here," he yelled, "an you ain't a-goin' to kill
him!... Help, Jesse!... He's crazy! He'll do it!"

Jesse Smith ran to Blicky's aid and tore the gun out of Kells's hand.
Jim Cleve grasped the preacher by the shoulders and, whirling him
around, sent him flying out of the door.

"Run for your life!" he shouted.

Blicky and Jesse Smith were trying to hold the lunging Kells.

"Jim, you block the door," called Jesse. "Bate, you grab any loose guns
an' knives.... Now, boss, rant an' be damned!"

They released Kells and backed away, leaving him the room. Joan's limbs
seemed unable to execute her will.

"Joan! It's true," he exclaimed, with whistling breath.

"Yes."

"WHO?" he bellowed.

"I'll never tell."

He reached for her with hands like claws, as if he meant to tear her,
rend her. Joan was helpless, weak, terrified. Those shaking, clutching
hands reached for her throat and yet never closed round it. Kells wanted
to kill her, but he could not. He loomed over her, dark, speechless,
locked in his paroxysm of rage. Perhaps then came a realization of ruin
through her. He hated her because he loved her. He wanted to kill her
because of that hate, yet he could not harm her, even hurt her. And his
soul seemed in conflict with two giants--the evil in him that was hate,
and the love that was good. Suddenly he flung her aside. She stumbled
over Pearce's body, almost falling, and staggered back to the wall.
Kells had the center of the room to himself. Like a mad steer in a
corral he gazed about, stupidly seeking some way to escape. But the
escape Kells longed for was from himself. Then either he let himself go
or was unable longer to control his rage. He began to plunge around. His
actions were violent, random, half insane. He seemed to want to destroy
himself and everything. But the weapons were guarded by his men and the
room contained little he could smash. There was something magnificent
in his fury, yet childish and absurd. Even under its influence and his
abandonment he showed a consciousness of its futility. In