The Branding Iron

"Pierre," she cried pitifully, "what are you a-goin' to do to me?"

He roped her to the heavy post of a set of shelves built against the

wall. Then he stood away, breathing fast.

"Now whose gel are you, Joan Carver?" he asked her.

"You know I'm yours, Pierre," she sobbed. "You got no need to tie me

to make me say that."

"I got to tie you to make you do more'n say it. I got to make sure you

are it. Hell-fire won't take the sureness out of me after this."

She turned her head, all that she could turn.

He was bending over the fire, and when he straightened she saw that he

held something in his hand ... a long bar of metal, white at the

shaped end. At once her memory showed her a broad glow of sunset

falling over Pierre at work. "There'll be stock all over the country

marked with them two bars," he had said. "The Two-Bar Brand, don't you

fergit it!" She was not likely to forget it now.

She shut her eyes. He stepped close to her and jerked her blouse down

from her shoulder. She writhed away from him, silent in her rage and

fear and fighting dumbly. She made no appeal. At that moment her heart

was so full of hatred that it was hardened to pride. He lifted his

brand and set it against the bare flesh of her shoulder.

Then terribly she screamed. Again, when he took the metal away, she

screamed. Afterwards there was a dreadful silence.

Joan had not lost consciousness. Her healthy nerves stanchly received

the anguish and the shock, nor did she make any further outcry. She

pressed her forehead against the sharp edge of the shelf, she drove

her nails into her hands, and at intervals she writhed from head to

foot. Circles of pain spread from the deep burn on her shoulder,

spread and shrank, to spread and shrink again. The bones of her

shoulder and arm ached terribly; fire still seemed to be eating into

her flesh. The air was full of the smell of scorched skin so that she

tasted it herself. And hotter than her hurt her heart burned consuming

its own tenderness and love and trust.

When this pain left her, when she was free of her bonds, no force nor

fear would hold her to Pierre. She would leave him as she had left her

father. She would go away. There was no place for her to go to, but

what did that matter so long as she might escape from this horrible

place and this infernal tormentor? She did not look about to see the

actuality of Pierre's silence. She thought that he had dropped the

brand and was sitting near the table with his face hidden. How long

the stillness of pain and fury and horror lasted there was no one to

reckon. It was most startlingly broken by a voice. "Who screamed for

help?" it said, and at the same instant a draught of icy air smote

Joan. The door had opened with suddenness and violence. With

difficulty she mastered her pain and turned her head.