"I'm sure you will be a man, Doug," responded Rita. "I don't believe I want to get married, but—but will you shake hands with me?"
"Bet I will, Rita. Mighty glad to. You've the best pluck of any girl on yarth, with all you're so mild and kitten-like, and the purtiest girl, too—yes, by gee, the purtiest girl in all the world. Everybody says so, Rita." Rita blushed, and began to move away from his honest flattery, so Doug said:—
"Well, good-by. Tell Dic good-by, and tell him I don't hold no grudge agin' him neither. Hope he don't agin' me. He ortent to. He's got lots the best of it—he won the fight and got you. Gee, I'd 'a' been glad to lose the fight if I could 'a' got you."
Thus it happened that these two, who had last met with death between them, parted as friends. Doug started for Illinois next day; and now he drops out of this history.
I have spoken thus concerning Rita's feeling about the shooting of Doug Hill to show you how easy it was for her, while sitting beside Williams that placid Sunday afternoon, to break in upon his interesting conversation with the irrelevant remark:—
"I once shot a man near this spot."
For a moment or two one might have supposed she had just shot Williams. He sprang to his feet as if he intended to run from her, but at once resumed his place, saying:—
"Miss Bays, your humor always surprises me. It takes me unawares. Of course you are jesting."
"Indeed, I am not. I have told you the truth. You will hear it sooner or later if you remain on Blue. It is the one great piece of neighborhood history since the Indians left. It is nothing to boast of. I simply state it as a fact,—a lamentable fact, I suppose I should say. But I don't feel that way about it at all."
"Did you kill him?" asked the astonished Bostonian.