“Who can prove it?” asked the Virginian.
“But don’t you know it?”
“I know a heap o’ things inside my heart. But that’s not proving. There was only the body, and the hoofprints—and what folks guessed.”
“He was never even arrested!” the girl said.
“No. He helped elect the sheriff in that county.”
Then Molly ventured a step inside the border of her lover’s reticence. “I saw—” she hesitated, “just now, I saw what you did.”
He returned to his caressing irony. “You’ll have me plumb scared if you keep on seein’ things.”
“You had your pistol ready for him.”
“Why, I believe I did. It was mighty unnecessary.” And the Virginian took out the pistol again, and shook his head over it, like one who has been caught in a blunder.
She looked at him, and knew that she must step outside his reticence again. By love and her surrender to him their positions had been exchanged.
He was not now, as through his long courting he had been, her half-obeying, half-refractory worshipper. She was no longer his half-indulgent, half-scornful superior. Her better birth and schooling that had once been weapons to keep him at his distance, or bring her off victorious in their encounters, had given way before the onset of the natural man himself. She knew her cowboy lover, with all that he lacked, to be more than ever she could be, with all that she had. He was her worshipper still, but her master, too. Therefore now, against the baffling smile he gave her, she felt powerless. And once again a pang of yearning for her mother to be near her today shot through the girl. She looked from her untamed man to the untamed desert of Wyoming, and the town where she was to take him as her wedded husband. But for his sake she would not let him guess her loneliness.
He sat on his horse Monte, considering the pistol. Then he showed her a rattlesnake coiled by the roots of some sagebrush. “Can I hit it?” he inquired.
“You don’t often miss them,” said she, striving to be cheerful.
“Well, I’m told getting married unstrings some men.” He aimed, and the snake was shattered. “Maybe it’s too early yet for the unstringing to begin!” And with some deliberation he sent three more bullets into the snake. “I reckon that’s enough,” said he.
“Was not the first one?”
“Oh, yes, for the snake.” And then, with one leg crooked cowboy fashion across in front of his saddle-horn, he cleaned his pistol, and replaced the empty cartridges.
Once more she ventured near the line of his reticence. “Has—has Trampas seen you much lately?”
“Why, no; not for a right smart while. But I reckon he has not missed me.”
The Virginian spoke this in his gentlest voice. But his rebuffed sweetheart turned her face away, and from her eyes she brushed a tear.
He reined his horse Monte beside her, and upon her cheek she felt his kiss. “You are not the only mind-reader,” said he, very tenderly. And at this she clung to him, and laid her head upon his breast. “I had been thinking,” he went on, “that the way our marriage is to be was the most beautiful way.”
“It is the most beautiful,” she murmured.
He slowly spoke out his thought, as if she had not said this. “No folks to stare, no fuss, no jokes and ribbons and best bonnets, no public eye nor talkin’ of tongues when most yu’ want to hear nothing and say nothing.”
She answered by holding him closer.
“Just the bishop of Wyoming to join us, and not even him after we’re once joined. I did think that would be ahead of all ways to get married I have seen.”
He paused again, and she made no rejoinder.
“But we have left out your mother.”
She looked in his face with quick astonishment. It was as if his spirit had heard the cry of her spirit.
“That is nowhere near right,” he said. “That is wrong.”
“She could never have come here,” said the girl.
“We should have gone there. I don’t know how I can ask her to forgive me.”
“But it was not you!” cried Molly.
“Yes. Because I did not object. I did not tell you we must go to her. I missed the point, thinking so much about my own feelings. For you see—and I’ve never said this to you until now—your mother did hurt me. When you said you would have me after my years of waiting, and I wrote her that letter telling her all about myself, and how my family was not like yours, and—and—all the rest I told her, why you see it hurt me never to get a word back from her except just messages through you. For I had talked to her about my hopes and my failings. I had said more than ever I’ve said to you, because she was your mother. I wanted her to forgive me, if she could, and feel that maybe I could take good care of you after all. For it was bad enough to have her daughter quit her home to teach school out hyeh on Bear Creek. Bad enough without havin’ me to come along and make it worse. I have missed the point in thinking of my own feelings.”
“But it’s not your doing!” repeated Molly.
With his deep delicacy he had put the whole matter as a hardship to her mother alone. He had saved her any pain of confession or denial. “Yes, it is my doing,” he now said. “Shall we give it up?”
“Give what—?” She did not understand.
“Why, the order we’ve got it fixed in. Plans are—well, they’re no more than plans. I hate the notion of changing, but I hate hurting your mother more. Or, anyway, I ought to hate it more. So we can shift, if yu’ say so. It’s not too late.”
“Shift?”
