“Who said I warnt shootin’ straight with you, Miss?” demanded Luke.
“I say so,” replied Wichita. “You’re holding something out on me. Say, I can read you just like a mail order catalogue. If you don’t come clean you’re through—your pay check’s waiting for you right now.”
“I kin always git another job,” parried Luke, lamely.
“Sure you can; but that isn’t the question, Luke,” replied the girl, sadly.
“I know it ain’t, Miss,” and Luke dug a toe into the loose earth beneath the cottonwood tree. “I did see somethin’ onusual today,” he blurted suddenly.
“I thought so. What was it?”
“An Apache—Shoz-Dijiji.”
Wichita Billings’ eyes went wide. Involuntarily her hand went to her breast, and she caught her breath in a little gasp before she spoke.
“You shot him?” The words were a barely audible whisper. “You shot him for the reward?”
“I shore did not,” snapped Luke. “Look here, Miss, you kin have my job any time you want it, but you nor no one else kin make me double cross a hombre what saved my life—I don’t give a damn who he killed—I beg yore pardon, Miss—and anyway I hain’t never believed he did kill your paw.”