“Where do you expect to go?” Helen strove to keep out of her voice the dismay that was in her heart.
“There was a boy, once,” he said, apparently not hearing her question. “He wasn’t a bad boy as boys go, but you couldn’t have called him a good boy, either. And he wasn’t smart, and he wasn’t stupid.” Gard looked out across the desert, considering.
“This boy went away from home the way boys do. He thought it was slow on the farm back in Iowa; and he drifted out to Arizona....”
He paused. He found the story even harder to tell than he had expected. Helen, watching him intently, leaned toward him ever so slightly.
“I want to hear about the boy,” she said, softly, and Gard went on, without looking at her.
“He got out to Arizona and went prospecting. He found a claim, and had it jumped. He got some dust together, and lost it. He lost a good many things; his real name, for one thing, and a lot of other things it does boys good to keep. He was getting into bad ways; getting mighty worthless; and then he got into trouble.”
Gard’s face was pale under its tan, and a white dint showed in either nostril. Helen was studying the sketch of the mountains.
“A man was killed—”
The girl gave a little gasp, and Gard turned to her quickly.
“The boy didn’t do it,” he cried. “Before Heaven! he hadn’t anything to do with it. Miss Anderson—” He bent toward her, eagerly. “Can’t you believe—no matter what comes up—won’t you—oh, you must believe that the boy hadn’t anything to do with it!”