“You got too big a heart, Dot. If you’d a-hung onto that pardner of mine, you’d ’a’ collected ten thousand dollars reeward—cash down.” He tapped the breast pocket of his corduroy coat as he spoke.
CHAPTER III—IN WHICH WILLS COLLIDE
For a long time after Sheriff Warburton rode away, Dot followed him with her eyes. Not until he was but a wisp of dust in the gray distance, did she turn to reënter the house. She was considerably shaken by the ordeal, relieved that it was over. Ten thousand dollars reward, he had said. A fortune! What a store of untold pleasures it would buy—surcease of worry, regeneration! Thoughtfully she walked to her room and unlocked the door. The fearful eyes of the fugitive fastened on hers questioningly.
“He’s gone. It was Sheriff Warburton. He’s hunting for you—to arrest you.” She said this in quiet tones.
“I—I don’t know how to thank you, Miss Huntington,” he stammered huskily. “My—my own mother couldn’t ’a’ done more. I ain’t deservin’. I’m no good. I’ll never ferget you as long as I live.” A strange spasm crossed his face. He settled feebly back on the bed, the tears coursing down his cheeks in little rivulets.
“There now! Don’t think about it,” she said gently. “I’ll fix you something to eat. Then you can sleep. But my father must not even suspect that you are here, understand? To-night, when you’re stronger, I’ll help you out of the house. I’ll spread a few blankets in the hayloft for you. You’ll be safe there.”
She made to leave the room, but he stopped her.
“Would you mind gettin’ me them—them saddlebags ag’in, Miss Huntington? An’—an’ keep ’em by me, won’t you? I got things in ’em I—I can’t afford to lose, so to speak.”
For the second time Dot obeyed his request, bringing the bulging twin leather pouches from under the parlor lounge and storing them under the head of the bed. Now, she began to wonder curiously what they contained. While she prepared him his meal she still wondered. Of a sudden it dawned on her that in her nervousness and excitement she had forgotten to ask Sheriff Warburton about the fugitive—who he was, the nature of his crime, everything. What if she should be harboring a murderer? The thought chilled the blood in her veins. It filled her with apprehension, misgivings—horrified her. She turned it over in her mind, deciding finally that she would not allow herself to believe it. He was not the type who would kill a man, of that she became firmly convinced. A murderer must have something of viciousness stamped on his face, she fancied. The result of these reflections made her resolve to ask her patient about himself. There was no great hurry. He could not leave inside of several days anyway.
Later that afternoon she gathered together a number of old blankets and quilts, and spread a bed for the wounded fugitive in an obscure corner of the hayloft under the eaves of the barn. She hid the blood-spattered saddle. Then she drove the exhausted horse to wander with their handful of stock in the far end of the field.