“Even your enemies are using it,––and I understand what it signifies.” She bent her eyes upon him for a time. “That is, what it signifies to your friends.”
“And to my enemies?”
“More gossip. They say it’s because you’re a gun-man and a knife-man. Oh, I wish I didn’t have to have my ears filled with such vicious slander! But it means the same to enemies as to friends if they would but admit it. I’ll wait until this rider passes, then I must go.”
No thought of friends or foes, both, or of any such person as Ed Sorenson in particular, was in Steele’s mind as he made answer.
“I’d stand here forever if you didn’t go,” he said, with a low eagerness that caused her breath to flutter in spite of herself.
On her part, her mind was whispering, “He means it, I believe he really means it.” Which caused her to lift and lower her eyes hurriedly, and feel a peculiar sense of trepidation and excitement. Odd to state, she, too, just then had no recollection of any such being as Ed Sorenson, which was the extreme of unloverliness.
“Before I do go, I’ve something to tell you,” she said hurriedly, dropping her voice. “It’s this: the dead man’s name was”––here her tone went down to a mere sibilance––“Pete Ortez.”
He leaned forward, once again the hard fierce man she had seen in Martinez’ office the night of the shooting.
“How did you learn that?”