“I thought so.  The poor devil got the wrong man.”

“Why?  Were those two enemies?”

“They had been partners, stealing and running cattle.  Dupont had cheated Hughes out of his share, and there was bad blood between them.  I ran across the fellow up on the Cimarron, waiting for Dupont to come back to his old range.  Did you ever hear Dupont called by any other name?”

She shook her head questioningly.

“No; was n’t that his real name?  The woman back there—­wasn’t she his wife?”

“She was his wife, yes; but their name was not Dupont.  That was assumed; the correct one was Le Fevre.”

“Le Fevre!  Why,—­why, wasn’t that the name of the man you told me about once?—­the officer who brought you those orders?”

“He is the same.  I did not know him at Dodge; not until Hughes told me.  He had changed greatly in appearance, and I only saw him at night.  But it was because I knew that I failed to kill him here; I wanted him alive, so I could compel him to tell the truth.”

She gave a little sob, her hands clasped together.  The man’s voice softened, and he took a step nearer, bending above her.

“And yet now I do not care quite as much as I did.”

She looked up quickly into his face, and as swiftly lowered her lashes.

“You mean you have found other evidence?”

“No, but I have found you, dear.  You need not try, for I am not going to let you get away.  It is not the officer’s daughter and the enlisted man any more.  Those barriers are all gone.  I do not mean that I am indifferent to the stain on my name, or any less desirous of wringing the truth from Gene Le Fevre’s lips, but even the memory of that past can keep me silent no longer.  You are alone in the world now, alone and in the shadow of disgrace—­you need me.”

He stopped, amazed at the boldness of his own words, and, in the silence of that hesitation, Molly lifted her eyes to his face.

“I think I have always needed you,” she said simply.

He did not touch her, except to clasp the extended hands.  The loneliness of the girl, here, helpless, alone with him in that wilderness of snow, bore in upon his consciousness with a suddenness that robbed him of all sense of triumph.  He had spoken passionately, recklessly, inspired by her nearness, her dependence upon him.  He had faith that she cared; her eyes, her manner, had told him this, yet even now he could not realize all that was meant by that quiet confession.  The iron discipline of years would not relax instantly; in spite of the boldness of his utterance, he was still the soldier, feeling the chasm of rank.  Her very confession, so simply spoken, tended to confuse, to mystify him.

“Do you mean,” he asked eagerly, “that you love me?”

“What else should I mean?” she said slowly.  “It is not new to me; I have known for a long while.”