Blenham
laughed harshly.
"Drunker'n a boiled owl," he grunted. "But jus' the same sober enough
to know----"
"Dad!" cried Terry a second time, out in the road beside him now, her
arms belting his slacking body. "It isn't just that. You----"
"Sick," moaned Temple weakly. "God knows--he's been hounding me to
death--I don't know--I wanted to stop, to rest back there but--I'm
afraid that----"
He broke off panting. Steve jumped out and slipped his own arms about
the wilting form.
"Let me get him into the car," he said gently. And when he had lifted
Temple and placed him in the seat he added quietly: "You'd better hurry
on I think. Get a doctor for him. I'll follow on his horse."
Terry flashed him a look of gratitude, took her place at the wheel and
started down grade. Her father at her side continued to settle in his
place as long as Steve kept him in sight.
"Well?" growled Blenham, his voice ugly and baffled and throaty with
his rage. "You butt in again, do you?"
Steve swung up into the saddle just now vacated by Temple.
"Yes," he retorted coolly. "And I'm in to stay, too, if you want to
know, Blenham. To the finish."
With only the width of a narrow road between them they stared at each
other. Then Blenham jeered:
"Oho! It's the skirt, huh? Stuck on her yourself, are you?"
Steve frowned, but met his piercing look with level contempt.
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