The Golden Woman

"Did he--insult you?" Buck asked sharply, ignoring the rest.

Joan looked quickly into the man's hot eyes, and in that moment realized the necessity for prudence. The fierce spirit was shining there. That only partly tamed spirit, which made her so glad when she thought of it.

"Oh, no," she said. "It wasn't that he insulted me. No--no. Don't think that. Only he went out of his way to tell me these things, to make me miserable. I was angry then, but I've got over it now. It--it doesn't matter. You see I just told you because--because----"

"If that man insulted you, I'd--kill him!"

Buck had drawn nearer to her. His tall figure was leaning forward, and his eyes, so fiercely alight, burned down into hers in a manner that half frightened her, yet carried with it a feeling that thrilled her heart with an almost painful delight. There was something so magnetic in this man's outburst, something so sweeping to her responsive nature. It was almost as though he had taken her in his two strong hands and made her yield obedience to his dominating will. It gave her a strange and wonderful confidence. It made her feel as if this power of his must possess the same convincing strength for the rest of the world. That he must sway all who came into contact with him. Her gladness at his visit increased. It was good to feel that he was near at hand.

But her woman's mind sought to restrain him.

"Please--please don't talk like that," she said, in a tone that carried no real conviction. "No, Beasley would not dare insult me--for himself."

The girl drew back to the oat-box, and seated herself. Buck's moment of passion had brought a deep flush to his cheeks, and his dark eyes moved restlessly.

"Why did you tell me?"

There was no escaping the swift directness of this man's mind. His question came with little less force than had been his threat against Beasley. He was still lashed by his thought of the wretched saloon-keeper.

But Joan had no answer ready. Why had she told him? She knew. She knew in a vague sort of way. She had told him because she had been sure of his sympathy. She had told him because she knew his strength, and to lean on that always helped her. Without questioning herself, or her feelings, she had come to rely upon him in all things.

But his sharp interrogation had given her pause. She repeated his question to herself, and somehow found herself avoiding his gaze. Somehow she could give him no answer.