“What’ve they got against you and Dextry—­some grudge?” she questioned.

“No, no!  We’re not the only ones in trouble; they’ve jumped the rest of the good mines and put this McNamara in as receiver on all of them, but that’s small comfort.  The Swedes are crazy; they’ve hired all the lawyers in town, and are murdering more good American language than would fill Bering Strait.  Dex is in favor of getting our friends together and throwing the receiver off.  He wants to kill somebody, but we can’t do that.  They’ve got the soldiers to fall back on.  We’ve been warned that the troops are instructed to enforce the court’s action.  I don’t know what the plot is, for I can’t believe the old Judge is crooked—­the girl wouldn’t let him.”

“Girl?”

Cherry Malotte leaned forward where the light shone on the young man’s worried face.

“The girl?  What girl?  Who is she?”

Her voice had lost its lazy caress, her lips had thinned.  Never was a woman’s face more eloquent, mused Glenister as he noted her.  Every thought fled to this window to peer forth, fearful, lustful, hateful, as the case might be.  He had loved to play with her in the former days, to work upon her passions and watch the changes, to note her features mirror every varying emotion from tenderness to flippancy, from anger to delight, and, at his bidding, to see the pale cheeks glow with love’s fire, the eyes grow heavy, the dainty lips invite kisses.  Cherry was a perfect little spoiled animal, he reflected, and a very dangerous one.

“What girl?” she questioned again, and he knew beforehand the look that went with it.

“The girl I intend to marry,” he said, slowly, looking her between the eyes.

He knew he was cruel—­he wanted to be—­it satisfied the clamor and turmoil within him, while he also felt that the sooner she knew and the colder it left her the better.  He could not note the effect of the remark on her, however, for, as he spoke, the door of the box opened and the head of the Bronco Kid appeared, then retired instantly with apologies.

“Wrong stall,” he said, in his slow voice.  “Looking for another party.”  Nevertheless, his eyes had covered every inch of them—­ noted the drawn curtains and the breathless poise of the woman—­ while his ears had caught part of Glenister’s speech.

“You won’t marry her,” said Cherry, quietly.  “I don’t know who she is, but I won’t let you marry her.”

She rose and smoothed her skirts.

“It’s time nice people were going now.”  She said it with a sneer at herself.  “Take me out through this crowd.  I’m living quietly and I don’t want these beasts to follow me.”

As they emerged from the theatre the morning air was cool and quiet, while the sun was just rising.  The Bronco Kid lighted a cigar as they passed, nodding silently at their greeting.  His eyes followed them, while his hands were so still that the match burned through to his fingers—­then when they had gone his teeth met and ground savagely through the tobacco so that the cigar fell, while he muttered: