She faced him with a flame in her eyes. "Had I known you, I never would have married you. But now that I do know you, I could never live with you again. I loathe and despise you, with all the strength that is in me."

"You want to leave me, eh?" He sneered as he stared at her. "And go with him?... Won't your reputation--?"

"What do I care for my reputation?" she flared. "At least I shall have my self-respect. I never could keep that if I went back to you."

"It's _your_ reputation, of course," Pell smiled. "You can do as you like with it." He turned fully toward her. "All right, I've no objection."

"You're lying," Gilbert affirmed.

Pell's tongue rolled round in his cheek. "I don't blame you for thinking so. _You_ haven't been shot to-day. You should try it sometime. It changes one's viewpoint surprisingly." His voice seemed to lose its hardness for a moment; there was a note of self-pity in it.

"But you said--" Gilbert began.

Pell's whole manner changed, and the look of a wounded animal came into his eyes. "A man says many things in anger that he doesn't mean," was his own extenuation. "Haven't you ever made the same mistake yourself, Jones? I'm sure you have. There's no use getting excited." He put up a hand. "Here we are, we three. She is my wife. But she doesn't love me, nor do I love her.

She does love you. What is the best way out for all of us?"

A new Morgan Pell! They could scarcely believe the metamorphosis.

"You'd give her up?" Gilbert said.

The other looked down, and the point of his boot drew a little ring on the floor. "I can't hold her," he said, "if she doesn't want to be held, can I?"

"You don't intend--"

"To fight you?" Pell looked him squarely in the eye. "I do not. I've had all the fighting I want for one day. Now, my own course is simple. I have merely to go back to New York and forget that either of you ever existed.

But your problem is more difficult. It's after eight. You've lost the ranch. And you have no money."

"But I can earn money," Gilbert said.

"A hundred dollars a month punching cows? With her in a boarding-house in Bisbee? A nice life, isn't it? Do you care to think of it, both of you?"

"I can take care of her," Gilbert was quick in saying.

"With your friend, Lopez--if he escapes--become a professional killer. My dear chap, you forget. She's used to decent people. It makes all the difference in the world." Pell turned away, lest the hard look should return to his countenance.

Lucia had been listening intently. "I know him, Gil," she whispered, loud enough for her husband to hear. "He's trying to frighten us!"

Pell faced her. "Frighten you? You're wrong, my dear. I'm merely trying to help you. That's all."

There was a step on the path--another step. Several people were approaching the adobe. Without ceremony, the door was thrust open, and Bradley was before them, excitement in his eyes. He came into the room and dim figures could be seen behind him. Was that Lopez tied up, with his back to them in the darkness? His shoulders were bent over, his hat was pulled down over his brow. His hair was matted, and two Mexicans stood guard on either side of him. Far away the stars twinkled, unmindful of his plight.

"Got any water?" Bradley asked.

"Lopez!" Pell exclaimed.

"He's got him!" came from Gilbert.

Lucia grew paler still. "Lopez! Captured!" she cried. "Oh!" And she hid her face in her hands. What a few brief hours could bring!

Bradley came close to her. "And a fine day's work for us, lady," he said, triumph in his tone. "We got him at last." Then, in the light of the candle, he caught a good view of Pell. "Say, I thought you was dead!" he cried.

"I was," laughed the other. "I mean--only a scalp wound." And he pointed to the mark on his forehead.

The figure at the door, piteous in its helplessness, never moved, never turned.

"Give me that water," Bradley continued. "I want to get him in alive if I can. All the more credit to me and my men, you see."

Morgan Pell had taken the canteen down from the wall and poured some water in it. Now he handed it to Bradley. "There you are," he said.

"Thanks," the ranger said. He went back to the door, and pushed the jug to the lips of his prisoner. "Take a swig o' that." Lopez did so. His humiliation was evident even in his back. And only a little while ago he had been the monarch of all he surveyed! Now he was the slave of Bradley, and must ride, hand-cuffed, to the jail a few miles away.

"He's wounded," said Lucia, going to the door. "You can't take him--like that!" she exclaimed. She longed for Lopez to turn and look at her; yet she longed, oddly enough, that he would not do so in the next second. It would be as difficult for her, as for him, if they saw each other. Her heart went out to him--this friend of Gilbert's--and hers.

Bradley hated this show of feminine weakness. "Why can't I take him like that? Do you think I'm going to nurse an invalid like him around these parts?" He took the canteen from one of his men. "Here," he said, handing it back to Pell.

"That's all right. Keep it; you may need it later on," said Pell, as though the jug were his to give away.

"Much obliged," the ranger thanked him, nothing loath. "Come on, Bloke.

Good-night. We got him!"

He gave the bandit a shove, and two other rangers grasped him by either arm. In a twinkling they were gone, had mounted their horses and were galloping away in the starlight.

So everything was over and done with! Lucia was heart-broken for Lopez. She came back into the room, murmuring:

"Lopez! Lopez captured!" There were tears in her eyes.

Pell paced the room with new strength. His eyes were now sinister.

"Fortunately for us, my dear," he said. "For now we are certain not to be disturbed while working out a sensible solution of our little problem." He had forgotten the pain in his head. He lighted a cigarette, casually, slowly. "You will of course sue for divorce," he went on, blowing a ring to the ceiling and watching it ascend. "But there'll be no difficulty about that. I shall not contest," he added magnanimously.

She grasped at the straw. "You won't?" She almost believed him now.

"You'd win, anyway," her husband said. "But there _is_ the question of alimony."

Gilbert swerved about. He detested the word. "Alimony!" he cried.

"An attractive woman never gets the worst of it in court," Pell coldly stated. "Suppose we settle that--right here and now. It will give you ready money. And it will save me from having to pay perhaps a greater sum--later.

That is...."

Gilbert was incensed. "We don't want your money!" he cried. And Lucia treated the suggestion with the scorn it deserved.

Pell looked at them both. "No? Well, in that case, I suppose there's nothing more to be said."

"And we are free to go?" Lucia cried, unbelieving.

Her husband puffed again. "Why not? I know I shan't stop you." Suddenly he dropped his cigarette, leaned heavily against the table, swayed a bit, and put his hand to his head. The old pain was returning.

"You're suffering?" Lucia asked, alarmed. A strange pallor had come over him.