Slim's Sister

Bruce Burt! the murderer! Of all things in the world that he should be "The Man from the Bitter Roots"--dining at the Strathmore--the guest of Winfield Harrah! Weren't people punished for murder in the West? Sprudell had intimated that he would hang for it. Helen's grey eyes were big with amazement and indignation while she watched him being seated.

She saw the widening of his eyes when he recognized Sprudell, the quick hardening of his features and the look that followed, which, if not exactly triumph, was certainly satisfaction. Involuntarily she glanced at Sprudell and the expression on his face held her eyes. It fascinated her. For the moment she forgot Bruce Burt in studying him.

She thought she had read his real nature, had seen his dominant characteristic in the blatant egotism that had shown itself so strongly in his elation. But this was different, so different that she had a queer feeling of sitting opposite an utter stranger. It was not dislike, resentment, fear; it was rather a sly but savage vindictiveness, a purposeful malice that would stop at nothing. In the unguarded moment Sprudell's passion for revenge was stamped upon his face like a brand. Helen had thought of him contemptuously as a bounder, a conceited ignoramus--he was more than these things, he was a dangerous man.

But why this intense antagonism? Why should they not speak? Sprudell had not told her of a quarrel.