"That thar showman ain't never said a word o' love ter me,"—she noted the incredulity in his face,—"barrin' complimints on the stunt, an' sech. I ain't goin' ter dance fur nothin'—got ter hev sa-aft sawder from the public, or somebody."
Still he was silent, standing in the middle of the red clay road, leaning on his stick like an old man, with his fiery young eyes looking up at her from under the flapping brim of his old white hat.
"But that don't mean I be in love with you uns, Eujeemes," she said severely. "I ain't thinkin' much o' you uns, like I uster do. I be in no wise pleased with you uns."
He was doubtful; influenced, but not overcome.
"I dunno why," he said sullenly.
"Kase ye 'lowed ter me whenst we uns fust took ter courtin' ez when ye killed that man ye shot 'twar plumb desperation—else he'd hev killed you uns in another minit."
The crisis, the emergency had sharpened her wits. Heretofore he could never bear unmoved a reference to this incident, that had changed all the currents of his life. She noted that he did not wince now. Her heart sank as she drew the obvious conclusion—he was no longer sensitive to the imputation of crime, the terror of conscience. He only lowered at her and stolidly listened.
"You used ter say you even wisht it had been you uns, 'stead o' him; it was jest an accident you got the drap on him fust."
His silence was inexpressive; he waited the application of these reminiscences.
"Ye useter say ye war no hardened crim'nal; ye acted in self-defence, as the law allows."