Swickey was crying, but the sound of digging, as David scraped a shallow hole in the shingle, brought her to her feet.
“Oh, Dave, he’s dead, and I killed him.”
She knelt and drew the mangled body to her knees.
“Swickey, don’t!” He grasped her arm roughly.
She shook it off and bent over the dog.
“Here, stop it! I can’t stand that,” he said more gently.
“I’ll do what you say, Dave,” she said, a new light coming to her eyes. David had never commanded her before. “I loved Smoke,” she sobbed. “Now he’s gone, and there’s no one—”
“Swickey!” His hand went out to her to help her up. She drew toward him, clinging to his arm, her head thrown back, her lips quivering. His arms went round her and his head bent slowly to hers. “I didn’t know, Swickey—I thought—there was some one else.”
His lips found hers gently, and the color ran to her face again. Her arms slipped round his neck and she reached up and caressed his cheek, her fingers creeping up to his hair. She touched the scar near his temple, and shuddered. Then her eyes filled again.
“Oh, Dave, he didn’t know, and you didn’t—but I knew when I fired. I had to shoot, Dave,—and I saw white—”