“I told you it was all over!” He pushed her away and started off, but he had taken only two steps when she was at his side again.
“I saw you from my window, Trev. I—I knew it was you—I couldn’t mistake you, anywhere. I followed you—saw you go into the Plaza. I came to warn you. Corrigan has planned to goad you into doing some rash thing so that he will have an excuse to jail or kill you!”
“Where did you hear that?”
“I—I just heard it. I was in the bank today, and I overheard him talking to a man—some officer, I think. Be careful, Trev—very careful, won’t you?”
“Careful as I can,” he laughed, lowly. “Thank you.” He started on again, and she grasped his arm. “Trev,” she pleaded.
“What’s the use, Hester?” he said; “it can’t be.”
“Well, God bless you, anyway, dear,” she said chokingly.
He passed on, leaving her in the shadows of the buildings, and walked far out on the plains. Making a circuit to avoid meeting the woman again, he skirted the back yards, stumbling over tin cans and debris in his progress. When he got to the shed where he had hitched Nigger he mounted and rode down the railroad tracks toward the cut, where an hour later he was joined by Clay Levins, who came toward him, riding slowly and cautiously.
Patrick Carson had wooed sleep unsuccessfully. For hours he lay on his cot in the tent, staring out through the flap at the stars. A vague unrest had seized him. He heard the hilarious din of Manti steadily decrease in volume until only intermittent noises reached his ears. But even when comparative peace came he was still wide awake.