Brand Blotters

All day the man persecuted Melissy with his attentions. His passion was

veiled under a manner of mock deference, of insolent assurance, but as the

hours passed the fears of the girl grew upon her. There were moments when

she turned sick with waves of dread. In the sunshine, under the open sky,

she could hold her own, but under cover of the night's blackness ghastly

horrors would creep toward her to destroy.

Nor was there anybody to whom she might turn for help. Lane and Jackson

were tools of their leader. The Mexican woman could do nothing even if she

would. Boone alone might have helped her, and he had ridden away to save

his own skin. So MacQueen told her to emphasize his triumph and her

helplessness.

To her fancy dusk fell over the valley like a pall. It brought with it the

terrible night, under cover of which unthinkable things might be done.

With no appetite, she sat down to supper opposite her captor. To see him

gloat over her made her heart sink. Her courage was of no avail against

the thing that threatened.

Supper over, he made her sit with him on the porch for an hour to listen

to his boasts of former conquests. And when he let her take her way to her

room it was not "Good-night" but a mocking "Au revoir" he murmured as he

bent to kiss her hand.

Melissy found Rosario waiting for her, crouched in the darkness of the

room that had been given the young woman. The Mexican spoke in her own

language, softly, with many glances of alarm to make sure they were

alone.

"Hist, señorita. Here is a note. Read it. Destroy it. Swear not to betray

Rosario."

By the light of a match Melissy read: "Behind the big rocks. In half an hour.

"A Friend."

What could it mean? Who could have sent it? Rosario would answer no

questions. She snatched the note, tore it into fragments, chewed them into

a pulp. Then, still shaking her head obstinately, hurriedly left the

room.

But at least it meant hope. Her mind flew from her father to Jack Flatray,

Bellamy, young Yarnell. It might be any of them. Or it might be O'Connor,

who, perhaps, had by some miracle escaped.

The minutes were hours to her. Interminably they dragged. The fear rose in

her that MacQueen might come in time to cut off her escape. At last, in

her stocking feet, carrying her shoes in her hand, she stole into the

hall, out to the porch, and from it to the shadows of the cottonwoods.