She went straight to the hotel, threw the reins, and walked boldly through the door into a cluster of men.  They yelled at the sight of her.

“Jig, by guns!  He’s come in!  Say, kid, the sheriff’s been looking for you.”

They swerved around her, grinning good-naturedly.  When a person has been almost lynched for a crime another has committed, he gains a certain standing, no matter what may be the public opinion of his courage.  The schoolteacher had become a personage.  But Jig met their smiles with a level eye.

“If the sheriff’s looking for me,” she said, “tell him I have a room in the hotel.  He can find me here.”

Pop shook hands before he shoved the register toward her.  “My kids will sure be glad to see you safe back,” he said.  “And I’m glad, too, Jig.”

Nodding, she turned to sign her name in the bold, free hand which she had cultivated.  She could feel the crowd staring behind her, and she could hear their murmurs.  But she was not nervous.  It seemed that all apprehension had left her.

“Where’s Cartwright?” she asked.

“Sitting in a game of poker.”

“Hello, buddy!” she called to a redheaded youngster.  “Go in and tell Cartwright that I’m waiting for him in my room, will you?”

“Ain’t no use,” said Pop, staring at this new and more masculine Jig.  “Cartwright is all heated up about the game.  And he’s lost enough to get anybody excited.  He won’t come.  Better go in there if you want to see him.”

“I’ll try my luck this way,” said Jig coldly.  “Run along, buddy.”

Buddy obeyed, and Jig went up the stairs to her room.

“What come over him?” asked the crowd, the moment Cold Feet was out of sight.  “Looks like he’s growed up in a day!”

“He’s gone through enough to make a man of him,” answered Pop.  “Never can tell how a kid will turn out.”

But in her room Jig had sunk into a chair, dropped her elbows on the table, and buried her face in her hands, trying to steady her thoughts.  She heard the heavy pounding of feet on the stairs, a strong tread in the hall that made the flooring of the old building quiver, and then the door was flung open, slammed shut, and the key turned in the lock.  Cartwright set his shoulders against the door, as though he feared she would try to rush past him.  He stared at her, with a queer admixture of fear, rage, and astonishment.

“So I’ve got you at last, eh?  I’ve got you, after all this?”

Curiously she stared at him.  She had dreaded the interview, but now that he was before her she was surprised to find that she felt no fear.  She examined him as if from a distance.

“Yes,” she admitted, “you have me.  Will you sit down?”

“I need room to talk,” he said, swaggering to the table.  He struck his fist on it.  “Now, to start with, what in thunder did you mean by running away?”

“We’re leaving the past to bury the past,” she said.  “That’s the first concession you have to make.”