Alice turned away in disgust. "Let him alone," she said, "and we will
have dinner. I'm simply famished. Nothing ever looked so good to me
in the world as that ham and potatoes and corn and peas." During the
course of the meal, Endicott tried to dissuade the girl from her
purpose of accompanying him on his search for Tex and the half-breed.
But she would have it no other way, and finally, perforce, he consented.
Leaving her to pack up some food, Endicott filled the water-bag that
hung on the wall and, proceeding to the corral, saddled three of the
horses. Through the open window of the cabin he could see the girl
busily engaged in transferring provisions to a sack. He watched her as
she passed and repassed the window intent upon her task. Never had she
seemed so lovable, so unutterably desirable--and she loved him! With
her own lips she had told him of her love, and with her own lips had
placed the seal of love upon his own. Happiness, like no happiness he
had ever known should be his. And yet--hovering over him like a
pall--black, ominous, depressing--was the thing that momentarily
threatened to descend and engulf him, to destroy this new-found
happiness, haunt him with its diabolical presence, and crush his
life--and hers.
With an effort he roused himself--squared himself there in the corral
for the final battle with himself.
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