“Partner, so help me heaven, I wouldn’t
touch a lock of her hair. Now lie easy while
I make sure of you.”
And he promptly trussed the other in the bridle reins.
Out of a pillowcase folded hard he made a gag and
tied it into the mouth of the man. Then he ran
his hands over the straps; they were drawn taut.
“If you make any noise,” he warned the
other, “I’ll come back to find out why.
S’long.”
Every moment was bringing on the dawn more swiftly,
and the eyes of Andy were growing more accustomed
to the gloom in the house. He found the door
of the girl’s room at once. When he entered
he had only to pause a moment before he had all the
details clearly in mind. Other senses than that
of sight informed him in her room. There was in
the gray gloom a touch of fragrance such as blows
out of gardens across a road; yet here the air was
perfectly quiet and chill. The dawn advanced.
But all that he could make out was a faint touch of
color againt the pillow—and that would
be her hair. Then with astonishing clearness he
saw her hand resting against her breast. Andy
stood for a moment with his eyes closed, a great tenderness
falling around him. The hush kept deepening,
and the sense of the girl drew out to him as if a light
were brightening about her.
He stepped back to the table against the wall, took
the chimney from the lamp, and flicked a match along
his trousers, for in that way a match would make the
least noise. Yet to the hair-trigger nerves of
Andy the spurt and flare of the match was like the
explosion of a gun. He lighted the lamp, turned
down the wick, and replaced the chimney. Then
he turned as though someone had shouted behind him.
He whirled as he had whirled in the hall, crouching,
and he found himself looking straight into the eyes
of the girl as she sat up in bed.
Truly he did not see her face at first, but only the
fear in it, parting her lips and widening her eyes.
She did not speak; her only movement was to drag up
the coverlet of the bed and hold it against the base
of her throat.
Andy drew off his hat and stepped a little closer.
“Do you know me?” he asked.
He watched her as she strove to speak, but if her
lips stirred they made no sound. It tortured
him to see her terror, and yet he would not have had
her change. This crystal pallor or a flushed joy—in
one of the two she was most beautiful.
“You saw me in Martindale,” he continued.
“I am the blacksmith. Do you remember?”
She nodded, still watching him with those haunted
eyes.
“I saw you for the split part of a second,”
said Andy, “and you stopped my heart. I’ve
come to see you for two minutes; I swear I mean you
no harm. Will you let me have those two minutes
for talk?” Again she nodded. But he could
see that the terror was being tempered a little in
her face. She was beginning to think, to wonder.
It seemed a natural thing for Andy to go forward a
pace closer to the bed, but, lest that should alarm
her, it seemed also natural for him to drop upon one
knee. It brought the muzzle of the revolver jarringly
home against the floor.
