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.