That day Nan washed her hair. On the second day––because there were no good reasons for it––she found herself deciding conscientiously to see de Spain for the last time, and toward sunset. This was about the time he had suggested, but it really seemed, after long thought, the best time. She began dressing early for her trip, and with constantly recurring dissatisfaction with her wardrobe––picking the best of her limited stock of silk stockings, choosing the freshest of her few pairs of tan boots. All of her riding-skirts looked shabby as she fretfully inspected them; but Bonita pressed out the newest one for the hurried occasion, while Nan used the interval, with more than usual care, on her troublesome hair––never less tractable, it seemed, in her life. Nothing, in truth, in her appearance, satisfied her, and she 194 was obliged at last to turn from her glass with the hateful sigh that it made no difference anyway.
De Spain was sitting with his back against a rock, and his knees drawn up, leaning his head on his right hand and resting his elbow on the knee. His left arm hung down over his left knee, and the look on his face was one of reflection and irresolution rather than of action and decision. But he looked so restored after his brief period of nourishment that Nan, when she stepped up on the ledge at sunset, would not have known the wreck she had seen in the same place the week before.
His heart jumped at the sight of her young face, and her clear, courageous eyes surveyed him questioningly as he scrambled to his feet.
“I am going to tramp out of here to-morrow night,” he confided to her after his thanks. “It is Saturday; a lot of your men will be in Sleepy Cat––and they won’t all be very keen-sighted on their way back. I can get a good start outside before daylight.”
She heard him with relief. “What will you do then?” she asked.
“Hide. Watch every chance to crawl a mile nearer Calabasas. I can’t walk much, but I ought to make it by Sunday night or Monday 195 morning. I may see a friend––perhaps I may see the other fellow’s friend, and with my lone cartridge I may be able to bluff him out of a horse,” he suggested, gazing at the crimson tie that flowed from Nan’s open neck. “By the way,” he added, his glance resting on her right side as he noticed the absence of her holster, “where is your protector to-day?” She made no answer. “Fine form,” he said coldly, “to come unarmed on an errand of mercy to a desperado.”
Nan flushed with vexation. “I came away in such a hurry I forgot it,” she replied lamely.
“A forget might cost you your life.”
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten you left a cartridge-belt behind once yourself,” she returned swiftly. The retort startled him. How could she know? But he would not, at first, ask a question, though her eyes told him she knew what she was talking about. They looked at each other a moment in silence.
De Spain, convicted, finally laid his fingers over the butt of his empty revolver. “How did you find that out?”