“Pretty soon,” she answered. “Will you be sorry?”
Denver shrugged his shoulders and began snapping pebbles at an ant.
“Sure,” he said and she drew away from him.
“You won’t!” she burst out resentfully.
“Yes, I’ll be sorry,” he repeated, “but it won’t make much difference–I don’t expect to last very long. I’ve always had a pardner, some feller to ramble around with and borrow all my money when he was broke, and I’m getting awful lonesome without one. Sooner or later, I reckon, I’ll pick up another one and the crazy danged fool will kill me. Drop a timber hook on my head or some stunt like that–I wish I’d never seen old Mother Trigedgo! What you don’t know never hurt anyone; but now, by grab, I’m afraid of every man I throw in with. For the time being, at least, he’s the best friend I’ve got; and–oh, what’s the use, anyway, it’ll get you, sooner or later–I might as well go out like a sport.”
“You were awful brave,” she murmured admiringly, “when you fought with Mr. Chatwourth 177yesterday. Weren’t you honestly afraid he would kill you?”
“No, I wasn’t!” declared Denver. “He didn’t look bad to me–don’t now and never did–and as long as the cards are coming my way I don’t let no alleged bad-man run it over me. Here’s the gun that I took away from him.”
“Yes, I noticed it,” she said. “But when he comes back for it are you going to give it up?”
“Sure,” answered Denver, “just show me a rock-pile and I’ll run him out of town like a rabbit.”
“And you fought him with rocks!” she said half to herself, “I wish I were as brave as that.”