Chapter XXII. "My Damn Pretty Li'l' High-Steppin' Squaw"
The man on the stool was Whaley. One glance at the girl and one at West's triumphant gargoyle grin was enough. He understood the situation better than words could tell it. To Jessie, at this critical moment of her life, even Whaley seemed a God-send. She pushed across the room awkwardly, not waiting to free herself of the webs packed with snow. In the dusky eyes there was a cry for help. "Save me from him!" she cried simply, as a child might have done. "You will, won't you?" The black eyebrows in the cold, white face drew to a line. The gambler's gaze, expressionless as a blank wall, met hers steadily. "Why don't you send for your friend Morse?" he asked. "He's in that business. I ain't." It was as though he had struck her in the face. The eyes that clung to his we're horror-filled.
- Writer
