“Nothing, honey, and that’s the worst of it. If it was true I wouldn’t care, ’cos it couldn’t be helped. It’s just a whole lot of rot that them reporters glory to write about.”
Thereupon, she gave the girl the details of a sensational first-page story telling of Billy Gee’s sudden reappearance at the Huntington ranch, after the authorities of San Buenaventura County had conclusively stated that he had perished on the desert following his escape from Warburton; how he had made away in the railroad detective’s automobile, and an account of Lemuel’s arrest on suspicion of having appropriated the stolen funds of the Mohave & Southwestern Railroad Company, and his subsequent release pending further investigation, as a result of the note written by the outlaw declaring that he had dug up and taken with him the twenty-thousand-dollar cache.
Dot listened attentively throughout that simple recital, an odd admiration she could not subdue dancing in her eyes at this latest of Billy Gee’s reckless exploits. Even while her little old friend was speaking, she understood the reason for this daring bandit’s action; her father had been suspected of the theft, and Billy Gee had lied to save him. Moreover, Billy Gee had lied to make wholly secure his twenty-thousand-dollar gift to her! Her heart beat fast; she could hear it pounding in her ears. Billy Gee had not forgotten, was not forgetting her. He was magnificent, romantically magnificent in his outlawry.
“And no matter how I’ve hated your dad, Dot, I know he never took that money,” resumed Mrs. Liggs, after a short pause. “He’s honest and wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“You’ve hated dad?” echoed the girl, staring incredulously at the bowed gray head.
She thought there was something infinitely pathetic in the appearance of that small figure before her, the droop of its narrow shoulders, the forlornness of its pose. This was not the sprightly, merry, little storekeeper she had known these last three years in far-off Geerusalem.
“I did, yes. But that’s all passed now. I’ve been happy to forget—and forgive, Dot.”
“Why, Mother Liggs! I won’t believe it. You and father have always been such good friends.”
The older woman nodded uncertainly at the carpet. She did not answer at once. The faint flush of excitement, which her cheeks had worn until now, vanished. Her gentle face was white and drawn; her lips were twitching.
“I’ve—I’ve come to tell you something, honey—not because I want to, but because he asked me to. I’m—I’m Billy Gee’s mother, Dot.” Her whisper, broken, scarcely audible, penetrated to the farthest recess of that cold, silent room.