Under the bidding of the liquor the faintness from the exertion and reaction was leaving me. The slight hemorrhage from the strain to my weak lungs had ceased. I would live, I would live. But he—Daniel?
“Did I kill him?” I besought. “Not that! I didn’t aim—I don’t know how I shot—but I had to. Didn’t I?”
“You did. He’ll not bother you ag’in. She’s yourn.”
That hurt.
“But it wasn’t about her, it wasn’t over Mrs. Montoyo. He bullied me—dared me. We were man to man, boys. He made me fight him.”
“Yes, shore,” they agreed—and they were not believing. They still linked me with a woman, whereas she had figured only as a transient occasion.
Then she herself, My Lady, appeared, running in breathless and appealing.
“Is Mr. Beeson hurt? Badly? Where is he? Let me help.” 255
She knelt beside me, her hand grasped mine, she gazed wide-eyed and imploring.
“No, he’s all right, ma’am.”