“You’re right, son,” replied the Texan, getting to his feet. “It’s dangerous for you to be here with me. If you’ll just bring my horse down here where I can get him, I’ll be obliged. Then you folks had better be riding on.”
“You’re going with us,” replied Alma.
“Where?” asked Bertram. “There’s no place in this part of the country where they won’t hang my hide on the barn door, after the thing that’s happened right here.”
“Yes, there is. We’re not all savages here. I don’t dare take you back to the home ranch, up Powderhorn River, but Jimmy and I have a hiding place all arranged for you, where it won’t be necessary to explain things to folks.”
“Yes, I reckon most people here will be inclined to shoot first and listen to explanations afterward,” said Bertram. “But you can’t afford to put yourself in a questionable light by sheltering one of Swingley’s rustlers. I can’t hide the fact that I’m a Texan.”
“Nobody wants you to,” answered the girl with a smile. “Jimmy will have the horses at the edge of the draw in a moment, and we’ll start on a nice quiet trail back into the hills, where we won’t meet a soul.”
“But—but I haven’t any claim on you,” stammered Bertram.
“Oh, yes you have—two claims. Didn’t you help me on my way, once when I started home, and once in Denver?”
“But those things didn’t amount to anything. And you know I came in here with this invading crowd that killed your stepfather. How do you know that I didn’t have a hand in shooting him?”
“Those things can be straightened out later. Right now you’re badly hurt, and the one thing is to get you cared for.”