It seemed incredible that Findlay would be so foolish as to believe a marriage by violence could be consummated, no matter for the ruffians he had stationed around the house. They might easily break down her door, drag her from the room and stand her beside Findlay, but they could not compel her tongue.
Alma stood at the open window, flaming and throbbing with resentful fire. And through it all there rose, slowly, the cold spectre of fear.
She began to realize her danger. Men as desperate as those who surrounded her would find a way to work their will. What would it matter to Findlay whether she spoke the marriage vows, whether her lips remained silent or assented?
One thought, one name, had leaped into her heart at Nearing's broaching of his shameful scheme—Barrett. She must get word to Barrett; by some means she must summon him. This necessity now clamored in her heart again, urging, intensified. Barrett, Barrett—she must get word to Barrett!
She thought of stealing from the house, but dismissed it in a breath. Men were on guard at the farther end of the patio, not fifty feet from where she stood. Others were in the kitchen, rough cattle thieves who would stop at nothing. She had heard Teresa ordering them out, and their loud laughter at her rage. As the realization of the danger that encompassed and drew in upon her spread its chill, Alma sat down in her weakness, her eyes staring wildly in the dark.
Findlay did not mean for her to escape from that house before they could carry out their plot against
