"I knows I did," he declared bitterly. "Ye've got a right ter plumb hate me."
"Ef I'd a-hated ye," she reminded him simply, "I wouldn't sca'cely have watched ther road all day." Then irrelevantly she demanded, "How did ye git yore shoulder hurt?"
The wish to defend himself with the palliations of last night's desperate fatigue and the chill in his wound was a strong temptation, but he repressed it. Knowledge of his encounter with Ratler Webb would only alarm her and conjure up fears of unforgiving vengeance.
"Hit war just a gun thet went off accidental-like," he prevaricated. "I wasn't harmed none, Blossom." Then in a tense voice he continued: "I only aimed ter drink a leetle—not too much—an' then somehow I didn't seem ter hev ther power ter quit."
He felt the lameness of that plea and broke off.
"I'd been studyin' about what you said on ther ridge," she told him falteringly, and the tremor of her voice electrified him. Again the mountains on their ancient foundations grew unsteady before his eyes.
"Does ye mean thet—thet despite last night—ye keers fer me?"
He bent forward, lips parted and heart pounding—and her reply was an unsteady whisper.
"I hain't plumb dead sartain yit, Turner, but—but this mornin' I couldn't think of nothin' else but you."
"Blossom!" exclaimed the boy, his voice ringing with a solemn earnestness. "I don't want thet ye shall hev ter feel shame fer me—but——"