The young man cast a despairing glance toward the girl who stood like a statue in her doorway, gravely listening. The man with the bushy white hair had drawn near, but evidently with no thought of interfering.
"Willock," the voice came so eager, so impetuous, that the words were somewhat incoherent, "I've GOT to talk to your daughter—hold on, don't shoot, LISTEN!—that's what I've come for, to see her and—and meet her and hear her voice. I can't help it, can I? It's been two long years since I left home, back East, and in all these two years I've never seen anything like your little girl and—and what harm can it do? I say! Have pity on a fellow, and do him the biggest favor he could enjoy on this earth when it won't cost you a penny, or a turn of your hand. Look here—hold on, don't turn away! I'm just so lonesome, so homesick, so dead KILLED by all these sand-hills and alkali beds and nothing to talk to from one year's end to the next but men and cattle...."
Willock glared at him in silence, fingering the trigger thoughtfully.
"There I've sat, on that hill," he continued, "since two o'clock last night, waiting for daylight so I could ask you to help a miserable wretch that's just starving to death for the sound of a girl's voice, and the sight of a girl's smile. Isn't this square, waiting for you, and telling you the whole truth? I never saw her but once, and that was from this same hill. She didn't know I was watching; it was yesterday. Maybe all I'm saying sounds just crazy to you, and I reckon I am out of my senses, but until I saw her I didn't know how heart-sick I was of the whole business."
"It IS kinder lonesome," remarked the other gruffly. He lowered his gun and leaned on it, irresolutely. "You've sure touched me in the right spot, son, for I knows all you mean and more that you ain't even ever dreampt of. But you see, we don't know nothing about your name, your character, if you've got one, nor what you really intends. I like your looks and the way you talk, fine, just fine, but I've saw bobcats that was mighty sleek and handsome when they didn't know I was nigh."
"My name in Wilfred Compton. I—I have a letter or two in my pocket that I got a long time ago; they'd tell something about me but I'd rather not show 'em, as they're private—"
"From your gal, I reckon?" asked Willock more mildly.
"Yes," he answered gloomily.
"Carried 'em as long as a year?"
"Nearly two years."