"You're right; I met him," Morgan said, remembering Dell Hutton among the wagons, his smoking gun in his hand.
"Sneaking little coward!"
"Well, he'll hardly sling his gun down on you," Morgan reflected, as if he communed with himself, yet thinking that Hutton scarcely would be beyond even that.
"Hardly," she replied, in abstraction. "What are you going to do with that old brigand you've got locked in the calaboose?"
"I expect we'll turn him loose in the morning. There doesn't seem to be anything we can hold him for, guilty as he is."
"If he'll leave, and never come back," doubtfully. "I'm glad now it turned out the way it did, I'm so thankful you didn't have to—that you came through without blood on your hands!"
"It would have been a calamity the other way," he said.
When Morgan went his way presently, leaving her in the door of the little boxlike newspaper office, from where she gave him a parting smile, it was with a revised opinion of the day's achievements. He felt peculiarly exalted and satisfied. He had accomplished something, after all.
Whatever this was, he did not confess, but he smiled, and felt renewed with a lifting gladness, as he went on to the livery barn, his horse at his heels.