"Oh, hurry, hurry . . .!"

With the utmost difficulty Johnson rose to his feet and catching the rounds of the ladder he began to ascend. But after going up a few rounds he reeled and almost fell off, gasping:

"I can't make it--no, I can't . . ."

"Yes, you can," encouraged the Girl; and then, simultaneously with another loud knock on the door: "You're the man I love an' you must--you've got to show me the man that's in you. Oh, go on, go on, jest a step an' you'll git there."

"But I can't," came feebly from the voice above. Nevertheless, the next instant he fell full length on the boarded floor of the loft with the hand outstretched in which was the handkerchief he had been staunching the blood from the wound in his side.

With a whispered injunction that he was all right and was not to move on any account, the Girl put the ladder back in its place. But no sooner was this done than on looking up she caught sight of the stained handkerchief. She called softly up to him to take it away, explaining that the cracks between the boards were wide and it could plainly be seen from below.

"That's it!" she exclaimed on observing that he had changed the position of his hand. "Now, don't move!"

Finally, with the lighted candle in her hand, the Girl made a quick survey of the room to see that nothing was in sight that would betray her lover's presence there, and then throwing open the door she took up such a position by it that it made it impossible for anyone to get past her without using force.

"You can't come in here, Jack Rance," she said in a resolute voice. "You can tell me what you want from where you are."

Roughly, almost brutally, Rance shoved her to one side and entered.

"No more Jack Rance. It's the Sheriff coming after Mr. Johnson," he said, emphasizing each word.

The Girl eyed him defiantly.

"Yes, I said Mr. Johnson," reiterated the Sheriff, c.o.c.king the gun that he held in his hand. "I saw him coming in here."

"It's more 'n I did," returned the Girl, evenly, and bolted the door.

"Do you think I'd want to shield a man who tried to rob me?" she asked, facing him.

Ignoring the question, Rance removed the glove of his weaponless hand and strode to the curtains that enclosed the Girl's bed and parted them.

When he turned back he was met by a scornful look and the words:

"So, you doubt me, do you? Well, go on--search the place. But this ends your acquaintance with The Polka. Don't you ever speak to me again.

We're through."

Suddenly there came a smothered groan from the man in the loft; Rance wheeled round quickly and brought up his gun, demanding:

"What's that? What's that?"

Leaning against the bureau the Girl laughed outright and declared that the Sheriff was becoming as nervous as an old woman. Her ridicule was not without its effect, and, presently, Rance unc.o.c.ked his gun and replaced it in its holster. Advancing now to the table where the Girl was standing, he took off his cap and shook it before laying it down; then, pointing to the door, his eyes never leaving the Girl's face, he went on accusingly:

"I saw someone standing out there against the snow. I fired. I could have sworn it was a man."

The Girl winced. But as she stood watching him calmly remove his coat and shake it with the air of one determined to make himself at home, she cried out tauntingly:

"Why do you stop? Why don't you go on--finish your search--only don't ever speak to me again."

At that, Rance became conciliatory.

"Say, Min, I don't want to quarrel with you."

Turning her back on him the Girl moved over to the bureau where she snapped out over her shoulder:

"Go on with your search, then p'r'aps you'll leave a lady to herself to go to bed."

The Sheriff followed her up with the declaration:

"I'm plumb crazy about you, Min."

The Girl shrugged her shoulder.

"I could have sworn I saw--I--Oh, you know it's just you for me--just you, and curse the man you like better. I--I--even yet I can't get over the queer look in your face when I told you who that man really was." He stopped and flung his overcoat down on the floor, and fixing her with a look he demanded: "You don't love him, do you?"

Again the Girl sent over her shoulder a forced little laugh.

"Who--me?"

The Sheriff's face brightened. Taking a few steps nearer to her, he hazarded:

"Say, Girl, was your answer final to-night about marrying me?"

Without turning round the Girl answered coyly:

"I might think it over, Jack."

Instantly the man's pa.s.sion was aroused. He strode over to her, put his arms around her and kissed her forcibly.

"I love you, I love you, Minnie!" he cried pa.s.sionately.

In the struggle that followed, the Girl's eyes fell on the bottle on the mantel. With a cry she seized it and raised it threateningly over her head. Another second, however, she sank down upon a chair and began to sob, her face buried in her hands.

Rance regarded her coldly; at last he gave vent to a mirthless laugh, the nasty laugh of a man whose vanity is hurt.

"So, it's as bad as that," he sneered. "I didn't quite realise it. I'm much obliged to you. Good-night." He s.n.a.t.c.hed up his coat, hesitated, then repeated a little less angrily than before: "Good-night!"

But the Girl, with her face still hidden, made no answer. For a moment he watched the crouching form, the quivering shoulders, then asked, with sudden and unwonted gentleness:

"Can't you say good-night to me, Girl!"

Slowly the Girl rose to her feet and faced him, aversion and pity struggling for mastery. Then, as she noted the spot where he was now standing, his great height bringing him so near to the low boards of the loft where her lover was lying that it seemed as though he must hear the wounded man's breathing, all other feelings were swept away by overwhelming fear. With the one thought that she must get rid of him,--do anything, say anything, but get rid of him quickly, she forced herself forward, with extended hand, and said in a voice that held out new promise:

"Good-night. Jack Rance,--good-night!"

Rance seized the hand with an almost fierce gladness in both his own, his keen glance hungrily striving to read her face. Then, suddenly, he released her, drawing back his hand with a quick sharpness.

"Why, look at my hand! There's blood on it!" he said.

And even as he spoke, under the yellow flare of the lamp, the Girl saw a second drop of blood fall at her feet. Like a flash, the terrible significance of it came upon her. Only by self-violence could she keep her glance from rising, tell-tale, to the boards above.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she heard herself saying contritely, all the time desperately groping to invent a reason; at length, she added futilely: "I must have scratched you."