“It is true,” began the unfortunate road agent in an even, unemotional voice, “that I love the Girl.”
At these words Rance’s arms flew up threateningly, while a mocking smile sprang to his lips.
“Well, you won’t in a minute,” he reminded him grimly.
The taunt brought no change of expression to the prisoner’s face or change of tone in his voice as he went on to say that he did not care what they did to him; that he was prepared for anything; and that every man who travelled the path that he did faced death every day for a drink of water or ten minutes’ sleep, concluding calmly:
“You’ve got me and I wouldn’t care but for the Girl.”
“You’ve got just three minutes!” A shade almost of contempt was in Sonora’s exclamation.
“Yes...!” blazed Trinidad.
There was an impressive silence; then in a voice that trembled strangely between pride and humility Johnson continued:
“I don’t want her to know my end. Why, that would be an awful thought for her to go on with all her life—that I died out there—near at hand. Why, boys, she couldn’t stay here after that—she couldn’t....”
“That’s understood,” replied Rance, succinctly.