“All right,” I replied with resignation. It was no task to discard that hollow mask of humor. A silence ensued, and I waited for it to be broken.
“Is Steele badly hurt?” asked Miss Sampson presently.
“No. Not what he or I'd call hurt at all. He's got a scalp wound, where a bullet bounced off his skull. It's only a scratch. Then he's got another in the shoulder; but it's not bad, either.”
“Where is he now?”
“Look across on the other ridge. See the big white stone? There, down under the trees, is our camp. He's there.”
“When may—I see him?” There was a catch in her low voice.
“He's asleep now. After what happened yesterday he was exhausted, and the pain in his head kept him awake till late. Let him sleep a while yet. Then you can see him.”
“Did he know we were coming?”
“He hadn't the slightest idea. He'll be overjoyed to see you. He can't help that. But he'll about fall upon me with harmful intent.”
“Why?”
“Well, I know he's afraid to see you.”
“Why?”
“Because it only makes his duty harder.”
“Ah!” she breathed.
It seemed to me that my intelligence confirmed a hope of hers and gave her relief. I felt something terrible in the balance for Steele. And I was glad to be able to throw them together. The catastrophe must fall, and now the sooner it fell the better. But I experienced a tightening of my lips and a tugging at my heart-strings.
“Sally, what do you and Diane know about the goings-on in town yesterday?” I asked.
“Not much. George was like an insane man. I was afraid to go near him. Uncle wore a sardonic smile. I heard him curse George—oh, terribly! I believe he hates George. Same as day before yesterday, there were men riding in and out. But Diane and I heard only a little, and conflicting statements at that. We knew there was fighting. Dick and the servants, the cowboys, all brought rumors. Steele was killed at least ten times and came to life just as many.
“I can't recall, don't want to recall, all we heard. But this morning when I saw the red scarf flying in the wind—well, Russ, I was so glad I could not see through the glass any more. We knew then Steele was all right or you wouldn't have put up the signal.”
“Reckon few people in Linrock realize just what
“Russ, I want you to tell me,” said Miss Sampson earnestly.
“What?” I queried sharply.
“About yesterday—what Steele did—what happened.”
“Miss Sampson, I could tell you in a few short statements of fact or I could take two hours in the telling. Which do you prefer?”
“I prefer the long telling. I want to know all about him.”
“But why, Miss Sampson? Consider. This is hardly a story for a sensitive woman's ears.”
“I am no coward,” she replied, turning eyes to me that flashed like dark fire.
“But why?” I persisted. I wanted a good reason for calling up all the details of the most strenuous and terrible day in my border experience. She was silent a moment. I saw her gaze turn to the spot where Steele lay asleep, and it was a pity he could not see her eyes then. “Frankly, I don't want to tell you,” I added, and I surely would have been glad to get out of the job.
“I want to hear—because I glory in his work,” she replied deliberately.
I gathered as much from the expression of her face as from the deep ring of her voice, the clear content of her statement. She loved the Ranger, but that was not all of her reason.
“His work?” I echoed. “Do you want him to succeed in it?”
“With all my heart,” she said, with a white glow on her face.
“My God!” I ejaculated. I just could not help it. I felt Sally's small fingers clutching my arm like sharp pincers. I bit my lips to keep them shut. What if Steele had heard her say that? Poor, noble, justice-loving, blind girl! She knew even less than I hoped. I forced my thought to the question immediately at hand. She gloried in the Ranger's work. She wanted with all her heart to see him succeed in it. She had a woman's pride in his manliness. Perhaps, with a woman's complex, incomprehensible motive, she wanted Steele to be shown to her in all the power that made him hated and feared by lawless men. She had finally accepted the wild life of this border as something terrible and inevitable, but passing. Steele was one of the strange and great and misunderstood men who were making that wild life pass.
For the first time I realized that Miss Sampson, through sharpened eyes of love, saw Steele as he really was—a wonderful and necessary violence. Her intelligence and sympathy had enabled her to see through defamation and the false records following a Ranger; she had had no choice but to love him; and then a woman's glory in a work that freed men, saved women, and made children happy effaced forever the horror of a few dark deeds of blood.
“Miss Sampson, I must tell you first,” I began, and hesitated—“that I'm not a cowboy. My wild stunts, my drinking and gaming—these were all pretense.”
