She had killed a man. And though there was justification for the deed, she could not fight down the shivering horror that had seized her, the overpowering and terrible knowledge that she had taken human life.
She sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, and Harlan said no word to her, standing motionless, his arms folded, one hand slowly caressing his chin, as he watched her.
After a time, drawing a long, shuddering breath, she looked up at him.
“How did you know—what made you come—here?” she asked.
“I wasn’t reckonin’ to sleep tonight—havin’ thoughts—about things,” he said. “I was puttin’ in a heap of my time settin’ in the doorway of the bunkhouse, wonderin’ what had made you so scared of me. While I was tryin’ to figure it out I saw Lawson comin’. There was somethin’ in his actions which didn’t jibe with my ideas of square dealin’, an’ so I kept lookin’ at him. An’ when I saw him prowlin’ around, tryin’ to open doors an’ windows, why, I just naturally trailed him. An’ I found the window he opened. I reckon that’s all.”
She got up, swaying a little, a wan smile on her face that reflected her astonishment and wonder over the way she had jumbled things. For this man—the man she had feared when she had left him standing outside the door some hours before—had been eager to protect her from the other, who had attacked her. He had been waiting, watching.
Moreover, there was in Harlan’s eyes as he stood in the room a considerate, deferential gleam that told her more than words could have conveyed to her—a something that convinced her that he was not the type of man she had thought him.
The knowledge filled her with a strange delight. There was relief in her eyes, and her voice was almost steady when she again spoke to him:
“Harlan,” she said, “did father really send you here? Did he make you promise to come?”
“I reckon he did, ma’am,” he said.