Betty Zane Zane Grey (desktop ebook reader TXT) 📖

a young lady pining for an absent and indifferent sweetheart. To her sorrow Betty played her part too well.

Except to Wetzel, whose keen eyes little escaped, there was no significance in Miller’s hilarity one moment and sudden thoughtfulness the next. And if there had been, it would have excited no comment. Most of the young men had sampled some of old Dan’s best rye and their flushed faces and unusual spirits did not result altogether from the exercise of the dance.

After one of the reels Miller led Betty, with whom he had been dancing, into one of the side rooms. Round the dimly lighted room were benches upon which were seated some of the dancers. Betty was uneasy in mind and now wished that she had remained at home. They had exchanged several commonplace remarks when the music struck up and Betty rose quickly to her feet.

“See, the others have gone. Let us return,” she said.

“Wait,” said Miller hurriedly. “Do not go just yet. I wish to speak to you. I have asked you many times if you will marry me. Now I ask you again.”

“Mr. Miller, I thanked you and begged you not to cause us both pain by again referring to that subject,” answered Betty with dignity. “If you will persist in bringing it up we cannot be friends any longer.”

“Wait, please wait. I have told you that I will not take ‘No’ for an answer. I love you with all my heart and soul and I cannot give you up.”

His voice was low and hoarse and thrilled with a strong man’s passion. Betty looked up into his face and tears of compassion filled her eyes. Her heart softened to this man, and her conscience gave her a little twinge of remorse. Could she not have averted all this? No doubt she had been much to blame, and this thought made her voice very low and sweet as she answered him.

“I like you as a friend, Mr. Miller, but we can never be more than friends. I am very sorry for you, and angry with myself that I did not try to help you instead of making it worse. Please do not speak of this again. Come, let us join the others.”

They were quite alone in the room. As Betty finished speaking and started for the door Miller intercepted her. She recoiled in alarm from his white face.

“No, you don’t go yet. I won’t give you up so easily. No woman can play fast and loose with me. Do you understand? What have you meant all this winter? You encouraged me. You know you did,” he cried passionately.

“I thought you were a gentleman. I have really taken the trouble to defend you against persons who evidently were not misled as to your real nature. I will not listen to you,” said Betty coldly. She turned away from him, all her softened feeling changed to scorn.

“You shall listen to me,” he whispered as he grasped her wrist and pulled her backward. All the man’s brutal passion had been aroused. The fierce border blood boiled within his heart. Unmasked he showed himself in his true colors⁠—a frontier desperado. His eyes gleamed dark and lurid beneath his bent brows and a short, desperate laugh passed his lips.

“I will make you love me, my proud beauty. I shall have you yet, one way or another.”

“Let me go. How dare you touch me!” cried Betty, the hot blood coloring her face. She struck him a stinging blow with her free hand and struggled with all her might to free herself; but she was powerless in his iron grasp. Closer he drew her.

“If it costs me my life I will kiss you for that blow,” he muttered hoarsely.

“Oh, you coward! you ruffian! Release me or I will scream.”

She had opened her lips to call for help when she saw a dark figure cross the threshold. She recognized the tall form of Wetzel. The hunter stood still in the doorway for a second and then with the swiftness of light he sprang forward. The single straightening of his arm sent Miller backward over a bench to the floor with a crashing sound. Miller rose with some difficulty and stood with one hand to his head.

“Lew, don’t draw your knife,” cried Betty as she saw Wetzel’s hand go inside his hunting shirt. She had thrown herself in front of him as Miller got to his feet. With both little hands she clung to the brawny arm of the hunter, but she could not stay it. Wetzel’s hand slipped to his belt.

“For God’s sake, Lew, do not kill him,” implored Betty, gazing horror-stricken at the glittering eyes of the hunter. “You have punished him enough. He only tried to kiss me. I was partly to blame. Put your knife away. Do not shed blood. For my sake, Lew, for my sake!”

When Betty found that she could not hold Wetzel’s arm she threw her arms round his neck and clung to him with all her young strength. No doubt her action averted a tragedy. If Miller had been inclined to draw a weapon then he might have had a good opportunity to use it. He had the reputation of being quick with his knife, and many of his past fights testified that he was not a coward. But he made no effort to attack Wetzel. It was certain that he measured with his eye the distance to the door. Wetzel was not like other men. Irrespective of his wonderful strength and agility there was something about the Indian hunter that terrified all men. Miller shrank before those eyes. He knew that never in all his life of adventure had he been as near death as at that moment. There was nothing between him and eternity but the delicate arms of this frail girl. At a slight wave of the hunter’s hand towards the door he turned and passed out.

“Oh, how dreadful!” cried Betty, dropping upon a bench with a sob