“I’ve been nearly crazy, I think,” he said to the girl with a wan smile of self-accusation. “I want you to forget what I said.”
“What happened at Manti?” she demanded, ignoring his words.
He laughed at the recollection, tucking his rifle under his arm, preparatory to leaving. “I went after the record. I got it. There was a fight. But I got away.”
“But the fire!”
“I was forced to smash a lamp in the courthouse. The wick fell into the oil, and I couldn’t delay to—”
“Was anybody hurt—besides you?”
“Braman’s dead.” The girl gasped and shrank from him, and he saw that she believed he had killed the banker, and he was about to deny the crime when Agatha’s voice shrilled through the doorway:
“There are some men coming, Rosalind!” And then, vindictively: “I presume they are desperadoes—too!”
“Deputies!” said Trevison. The girl clasped her hands over her breast in dismay, which changed to terror when she saw Trevison stiffen and leap toward the door. She was afraid for him, horrified over this second lawless deed, dumb with doubt and indecision—and she didn’t want them to catch him!
He opened the door, paused on the threshold and smiled at her with straight, hard lips.