"Take it," she told him, and waited.

Perhaps he might have spared her had it not been for the look of deep
contempt that bit into his vanity.

He kissed her full on the lips.

Instantly she woke to life, struck him on the cheek with her little,
brown fist, and, with a sob of woe, turned and ran from the room.

Weaver cursed himself in a fury of anger. He felt himself to be a hound
because of the thing he had done, and he hated the instinct in him that
drove him to master her. He had insulted and trampled on her. Yet he
knew in his heart that he would have killed another man for doing it.

[Illustration: SHE DREW BACK AS IF HE HAD STRUCK HER, ALL THE SPARKLING
EAGERNESS DRIVEN FROM HER FACE. _Page 116_]




CHAPTER IX

PUNISHMENT


The cattleman strode into the bunk house, where young Sanderson sat
sulkily on a bed under the persuasion of Curly's rifle.

"Have this boy's horse saddled and brought around, Curly."