"And they'll suspect you of being in league with counterfeiters," said the father.
"They may suspect me of anything they like!" exclaimed the sheriff, "so you love me and be—be your own best self and my good father. But this bare hut—not a comfort that you need—no food—nothing—oh, if there was only some one who had a heart, and could help us!"
"There is!" whispered Jim Williamson, with all his might. Both occupants started, and the wounded man's eyes glared like a wolf's.
"Don't be frightened," whispered Jim; "I'm yours, body and soul—the devil himself would be, if he'd been standin' at this hole the last five minutes. I'm Jim Williamson. Let me help you miss—sheriff."
The sheriff blew out the light, opened the door, called softly to Jim, led him into the hut, closed the door, relighted the candle and—blushed. Jim looked at the sheriff out of the top of his eyes, and then blushed himself—then he looked at the wounded man. There was for a moment an awkward silence, which Jim broke by clearing his throat violently, after which he said:
"Now, both of you make your minds easy. Nobody'll never find you here—I've hunted through all these woods, but never saw this cabin before. Arm broke?"
"No," said the counterfeiter, "but—but it runs in the family to shoot ugly."
Again the sheriff kissed the man repeatedly.
"Then you can move in two or three days," said Jim, "if you're taken care of rightly. Nobody'll suspect anything wrong about the sheriff, ef he don't turn up again right away. I'll go back to town, throw everybody off the track, and bring out a few things to make you comfortable."
Jim looked at the sheriff again, blushed again, and started for the door. The wounded man sprang to his feet, and hoarsely whispered: