"Well, it was this way—I think. He was probably sick, and didn't feel a little bit like sorting mail when I asked for it. He sure was aggravatin', and I cussed him good and plenty. I reckon I had a clove on my tongue that day, and was irritable, and when he lit onto me, I was hot as a hornet, and went away swearing to get square." He braced himself for the plunge. "That was my gang of cowboys that came hell-roaring around the night I met you. They were under my orders to scare your uncle out of his hole, and I was going to rope him."
"Oh!" she gasped, and drew away from him; "that poor, sick old man!"
He hastened to soften the charge. "Of course I didn't know he was sick, or I wouldn't 'ave done it. He didn't look sick the day before; besides, I didn't intend to hurt him—much. I was only fixin' for to scare him up for pullin' a gun on me, that was all."
"That's the meanest thing I ever heard of—to think of that old man, helpless, and you and a dozen cowboys attacking him!"
"I tell you I didn't know he was ailin', and there was only six of us."
Her tone hurt as she pointed at him. "And you pretend to be so brave."
"No, I don't."
"You did!"
"No, I didn't. You said I was brave and kind, but I denied it. I never soberly claimed any credit for driving off that band of outlaws. That's one reason why I've been sticking so close to business here—I felt kind o' conscience-struck."
Her eyes were ablaze now. "Oh, it is! You've said a dozen times it was on my account."