"I believe you," Faith said. In her sudden relief lesser things did not matter. "I don't know what to do. Stay and help me, please."
"I guess you don't understand," he returned, shaking his head. "This would mean about twenty years apiece for me and Blake if we're caught. And then"—he nodded at Angus—"when he comes around there won't be room enough in this country for him and us."
"But I'll tell him you helped me—how you struck Blake's arm—and afterward!"
"You're one white girl," Garland said with emphasis, "but I'm in too deep. You can tell him if you like, and you can tell him I'm pulling out. I never meant to do more than bluff you. Good-by."
He was gone. Faith got water, towels, and bathed Angus' head. Touching the wound with tender fingers she found that as Garland had said it was apparently in the scalp merely. Presently Angus sighed, stirred, muttered and opened his eyes.
"Hello!" he said, and as recollection came to him he sat up suddenly, staring around. "Where are they?" he demanded.
"They are gone, dear. It's all right. Don't try to get up."
But he shook his head impatiently and rose to his feet.
"What happened? Blake French and Garland! What were they doing? What's the matter with your hair? Your dress is torn." A tremendous expletive burst from him. "What are those marks on your throat?"
Her hand fluttered upward involuntarily. "Nothing. Never mind now. Please——"