"Oh, you're not going now!" she cried. "You haven't told me your story."
"Oh, yes, I have; all that you'd care to hear. It don't amount to much, except the murder charges, and they are wrong. It wasn't my fault. They crowded me too hard, and I had to defend myself. What is a man to do when it's kill or be killed? That's all over and past, anyway. From this time on I camp high. The roosters and church bells are getting too thick on the Arickaree."
He crushed his hat in his hand as he turned to her, and tears were in her eyes as she said:
"Please don't go; I expected you to stay to dinner with me."
"The quicker I get out o' here the better," he replied hoarsely, and she saw that he was trembling. "What's the good of it? I'm out of it."
She looked up at him in silence, her mind filled with the confused struggle between her passion and her reason. He allured her, this grave and stern outlaw, appealing to some primitive longing within her.
"I hate to see you go," she said slowly. "But—I—suppose it is best. I don't like to have you forget me—I shall not forget you, and I will sing for you every Sunday afternoon, and no matter where you are, in a deep cañon, or anywhere, or among the Indians, you just stop and listen and think of me, and maybe you'll hear my voice."
Tears were in her eyes as she spoke, and he took a man's advantage of her emotion.
"Perhaps if I come back—if I make a strike somewhere—if you'd say so——"
She shook her head sadly but conclusively. "No, no, I can't promise anything."