When he had gone she hesitated a moment, and then went and put the clock back another few minutes. When Dan came back his breakfast was on the table, and when he wanted to stand and drink his tea and take some bread and bacon in his pocket, she would not hear of it, and made him sit down.
“Get me the cartridges from the office,” he said.
“An’ ye might load the two chambers I fired.” She brought the cartridges and broke open the revolver and extracted the empty shells. Her fingers moved slowly, and then stopped. “I heard you shoot,” she said. “You missed him?”
“I missed him,” he said, “be yards.”
“How could ye know it was by yards?” she asked.
“How should I not know?” he answered, with his mouth full. “Me that took the Constable’s Cup an’ can hit a runnin’ rabbit at—well, well, never mind that,” he finished hastily.
A smile was playing about her face, and she picked out the two cartridges. “You missed before,” she said, with her fingers still again. “But, Danny dear, suppose—you might meet him—it might be him or you—you’d have to....” She twisted the things. “I just don’t like to do it, Dan,” she said suddenly. “I know you might have to, but I’d never have peace after, to think ’twas me loaded the gun that did it. You might shoot him, Dan, an’....”
“Shoot him? ’Course I’ll shoot ’im first chance I get,” he said, with mock ferocity. “I’ll shoot ’im full o’ holes as yer kitchen colander. Don’t I owe him wan for the kiss I saw him give you before me very eyes?”
“You saw that?” she said defiantly. “An’ you might have seen the one I gave him back. Ye owe him one for that, Danny, an’ of course you owe him nothin’ for ridin’ fifty mile through the rains an’ swimmin’ the Staked Crossin’ in a ragin’ flood to bring the doctor to poor little Danny, that wouldn’t be with us now but for him.”
“Be quiet, woman,” said Dan, fiercely. “Is it wi’ that in my heart ye’d send me out to meet a man I may have to shoot or be shot by? ’Tis a nice choice, too.”