“Have you seen Blatch, yourself, Judith?” Creed asked quickly.
“Oh, laws, no. He’s a layin’ out in the woods somewheres, aimin’ to make Uncle Jep believe you killed him. But I heard him plain enough—I heard him and the boys fix it all up—hid out from Uncle Jep down in the grain-room. There’s to be seven of ’em a-waitin’ down by the big hollow, and when they git you betwixt them an’ the sky at moonrise they’re all promised to shoot at once, so that nary man dast to go back on the others when you’re killed.”
Wounded, appalled, the young fellow drew back from her and clung to the saddle of the old mule, with a boyish desire to hide his face against the arm which he threw over it.
“How they hate me!” he breathed at last. “Oh, I’ve failed—I’ve failed. I meant so well by them all—and I’ve got nothing but their hate. But I won’t run. I never ran from anything yet. I’ll stay here and take what comes.”
Perhaps in his extremity the despair of this speech was but an unconscious reaching out for Judith’s expressed affection, the warmth and consolation of her love. If this were so, the movement brought him what he craved. In terror she laid hold upon him, holding to his unwounded arm, pressing her cheek upon his shoulder, making her protest in swift passionate sentences.
“What good will it do for you to get yourself killed—tell me that? Every one of them men will be murderers, when you’ve stayed and seen it through. Lord, what differ is it whether sech critters as them love you or hate you? ’Pears to me I would ruther have their ill-will as their good-will. Don’t you have no regards for them that is good friends to you? I care. I understand what it was you was tryin’ to do. I thort it was fine. Air you goin’ to break my heart by stayin’ here to git yourself killed? Oh, don’t do it, Creed. You let me take you out of the mountains, or I’ll never know what it is to sleep in peace.”
His arm slipped softly round her waist and drew her close against his side, so close that the two young creatures, standing silent in the midst of the warm summer night, could almost hear the beating of each other’s heart. In spite of their desperate situation they were tremulously happy.
“I thank my God for you, Judith,” murmured Creed, bending to lay his cheek timidly against hers. “Never was a man in trouble had such a sweet helper. It’s mighty near worth it all to have found you. Maybe you never would have cared for me at all if this hadn’t come about—if I hadn’t needed you so bad.”
Judith’s lavish heart would have hastened to break its alabaster jar of ointment at love’s feet with the impetuous avowal that he had been dear to her since first she looked on him. But there was instant need of haste; the situation was full of danger; that confession, with all its sweetness, might well wait a more secure time and place. She got to her horse glowing with hope, feeling herself equal to the dubious enterprise before them.
“Whatever you say honey,” Creed assured her. “Do with me as you will. I’m your man now.”