“And could you”—he hesitated, and went on with a forced smile—“you see, I've eaten nothing since last night. Could you”—
“I'll bring you something,” she said quickly, nodding her head.
“And if you had”—he went on more hesitatingly, glancing down at his travel-torn and frayed garments—“anything like a coat, or any other clothing? It would disguise me also, you see, and put 'em off the track.”
She nodded her head again rapidly: she had thought of that too; there was a pair of doeskin trousers and a velvet jacket left by a Mexican vaquero who had bought stock from them two years ago. Practical as she was, a sudden conviction that he would look well in the velvet jacket helped her resolve.
“Did they say”—he said, with his forced smile and uneasy glance—“did they—tell you anything about me?”
“Yes,” she said abstractedly, gazing at him.
“You see,” he began hurriedly, “I'll tell you how it was.”
“No, don't!” she said quickly. She meant it. She wanted no facts to stand between her and this single romance of her life. “I must go and get the things,” she added, turning away, “before he gets back.”
“Who's HE?” asked the man.
She was about to reply, “My husband,” but without knowing why stopped and said, “Mr. Beasley,” and then ran off quickly to the house.