Adroitly, with a regained power of resistance and a lithe twist, she
slipped out of his grasp, hammering at his face futilely with her
clenched fists.
"I--I've got a notion ter kill ye!" she cried, brokenly. "Ef Samson
was hyar, ye wouldn't dare--" What else she might have said was shut
off in stormy, breathless gasps of humiliation and anger.
"Well," replied Tamarack, with drawling confidence, "ef Samson was
hyar, I'd show him, too--damn him! But Samson hain't hyar. He won't
never be hyar no more." His voice became deeply scornful, as he added:
"He's done cut an' run. He's down thar below, consortin' with
furriners, an' he hain't thinkin' nothin' 'bout you. You hain't good
enough fer Samson, Sally. I tells ye he's done left ye fer all time."
Sally had backed away from the man, until she stood trembling near the
hearth. As he spoke, Tamarack was slowly and step by step following her
up. In his eyes glittered the same light that one sees in those of a
cat which is watching a mouse already caught and crippled.
She half-reeled, and stood leaning against the rough stones of the
fireplace. Her head was bowed, and her bosom heaving with emotion. She
felt her knees weakening under her, and feared they would no longer
support her. But, as her cousin ended, with a laugh, she turned her
back to the wall, and stood with her downstretched hands groping
against the logs. Then, she saw the evil glint in Tamarack's blood-shot
eyes. He took one slow step forward, and held out his arms.
"Will ye come ter me?" he commanded, "or shall I come an' git ye?" The
girl's fingers at that instant fell against something cooling and
metallic. It was Samson's rifle.
With a sudden cry of restored confidence and a dangerous up-leaping of
light in her eyes, she seized and cocked it.