Woods
has taken out an unusually long cigar. He lights it at the door,
and leisurely proceeds to smoke it on the upper veranda.
When his foot-fall dies away, Hardin essays to speak. His lips
are strangely dry. He mutters something, and the words fail him.
Natalie interrupts, with scorn: "Curse you and your money, you
cowardly thief. You have met your match at last. I trusted to your
honor. Your hands were on my throat just now. I have but one word
to say to you now. Go, face that man out there!" Hardin is in a
blind rage.
His legal vocabulary finds no ready phrase of adieu. His foot is
on the top stair. Joe Woods says carelessly:
"Judge, you and I had better have a little talk to-night." Ah,
his enemy! He knows him at last. Hardin hoarsely mutters: "Where?
when?"
"When you please," says Woods.
"Ten, to-night; your room. I'll bring a friend with me." Hardin
nods, and passes on, crossing the square to his hotel. He must have
time for thought; for new plans; for revenge; yes, bloody revenge.
Colonel Joseph Woods spends an hour in conference with Peyton and
Father Francois. Their plans are all finished.
Judge Davis, who is paralyzed by the vehemence of California
character, caresses his educated whiskers.
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