"It isn't. It's this: Suppose we drop the subject till tomorrow—it won't hurt any of us to sleep on it, and I know I'D enjoy another night with you, as in the old days."
"I'm willing to sleep on it, out of friendship," Willock conceded unwillingly, "though I'd rest easier on a bed in the jail. There never was no bird more crazy to get into a cage than I am to be shut up. But as to the old days, they ain't none left. Them deputies is in the dugout, they're in the cabin I built for Lahoma, they think they owns our cove. Well, they's no place left for me; life wouldn't be nothing, crouching and slinking up here in the rocks. Life wouldn't be nothing to me without Lahoma. I'd have a pretty chance for happiness, now wouldn't I, sitting up somewheres with Bill Atkins! I ain't saying I mightn't get out of this country and find a safe spot where I could live free and disposed with an old renegade like HIM that nobody ain't after and ain't a-caring whether he's above ground or in kingdom come. But I couldn't be with Lahoma; I'm under ban."
"If you were on my farm near Oklahoma City," Wilfred suggested, "and Lahoma and I lived in the city, you could often see her. Up there, nobody'd molest you, nobody'd know you. That's what I've been planning. You could look after the farm and Bill could go back and forth. As soon as the news comes that Red Feather killed Gledware, it'll be taken for granted that he killed Red Kimball and attacked the stage. You'll be cleared of all that and nobody will want you arrested."
Willock rose. "Are we going to sleep on this, or shall I answer you now?" he demanded fixedly.
Wilfred hastily asked for time.
They passed the night in the mountain-top, but Willock had spoken truly; there were no old days. The one subject forbidden was the only subject in their minds. All attempts at reminiscence, at irrelevant anecdotes, were mere pretense. The fact that Wilfred and Lahoma were now married seemed to banish events of a month ago as if they were years and years in the past.
They partook of breakfast in the gray dawn of the new day, eating by lantern-light. And when the light had been extinguished, Willock, like a wild animal brought to bay, squared his shoulders against the wall, and said: "We've slept on it. Say all you got to say. Don't leave out nothing because you might be sorry, afterwards. Speak together, or one at a time, it's all the same to me. And when you're done, and say you're done, I'll do my talking, according."
And when they were done, and said they were done, he straightened himself and said:
"When Red Kimball's band give themselves to the law that done nothing to them, there might of been a man, one of 'em, that never come in out of the rain. I ain't saying I am that man, for I stands by the records and the proofs and the showings of man and man, technical and arbitrary. But in due time, the governor of Texas he says that that man—whoever he may be—was no longer to be excused on the grounds that he done his operating in No-Man's Land and his residing in the state of Texas. And he said that there man would be held responsible for all the deeds done by Red Kimball's band. That word has been handed down. Now whether I'm that man, or just thought to be that man, makes little difference. I'm a fugitive on the face of the earth without an ark of safety—referring to my cove. That's ME.
"Now look at LAHOMA. She has folks, not meaning you, Wilfred, but Boston kin that stands high. A woman ain't nothing without family, out in the world. You're going to be a great man some day, if I don't miss my guess, a great man in Oklahoma government and laws. Lahoma's going to be proud of you. You'll take a hand in politics, you'll be elected to something high. If I lived near at hand, I'd all-time be hiding, and having her a-conniving at something that would hurt your reputation if found out, and that would kill me because I couldn't breathe under such a load. And if away from her, well—I'm too old, now, to live without Lahoma. She's—she's just a habit of mine.