“There's only four calves in the corral--and I brought in five. Where's the other one?” He came up and stood quite close to her--so close that Val took a step backward. He did not speak loud, but there was something in his tone, in his look, that drove the little remaining color from her face.
“Manley,” she said, with a catch of the breath, “why did you do that horrible thing? What devil possessed you? I--”
“I asked you 'where is that other calf'? Where is it? There's only four. I brought in five.” His very calmness was terrifying.
Val threw back her head, and her eyes were--as they frequently became in moments of stress--yellow, inscrutable, like the eyes of a lion in a cage.
“Yes, you brought in five. One of the five, at least, you--stole. You put your brand, Manley Fleetwood, on a calf that did not belong to you; it belonged to the Wishbone, and you know it. I have learned many disagreeable things about you, Manley, in the past two years; yesterday morning I learned that you were a _thief_. Ah-h--I despise you! Stealing from the very men who helped you--the men to whom you owe nothing but gratitude and--and friendship! Have you no manhood whatever? Besides being weak and shiftless, are you a criminal as well? _How_ can you be so utterly lacking in--in common decency, even?” She eyed him as she would look at some strange monster in a museum about which she was rather curious.
“I asked you where that other calf is--and you'd better tell me!” It was the tone which goes well with a knife thrust or a blow. But the contempt in Val's face did not change.
“Well, you'll have to hunt for it if you want it. The cow--a Wishbone cow, mind you!--came and claimed it; I let her have it. No stolen goods can remain on this ranch with my knowledge, Manley Fleetwood. Please remember--”
“Oh, you turned it out, did you? You turned it out?” He had her by the throat, shaking her as a puppy shakes a purloined shoe. “I could--_kill_ you for that!”
“Manley! Ah-h-h--” It was not pleasant--that gurgling cry, as she straggled to get free.
He had the look of a maniac as he pressed his fingers into her throat and glared down into her purpling face.
With a sudden impulse he cast her limp form violently from him. She struck against a chair, fell from that to the floor, and lay a huddled heap, her crisp, ruffled skirt just giving a glimpse of tiny, half-worn slippers, her yellow hair fallen loose and hiding her face.