"Tillhurst is a consummit liar, beautiful to look upon. That girl tagged Phil. He couldn't get away an' be a gintleman."
I did not know then what he was saying, but I saw her face bloom again.
Later I had her alone a moment. We were eating water melon on the back porch, half in the shadow, which we didn't mind, of course.
"May I take you home, Marjie, and tell you how sweet that letter was?" I asked.
"Phil, I didn't know you were coming, and Richard Tillhurst asked me just as you came in. I saw Amos Judson coming my way, so I made for the nearest port."
"And you did right, dearie," I said very softly; "but, Marjie, don't forget you are my girl, my only girl, and I'll tell you all about this Topeka business to-morrow night. No, I'll write you a letter to-night when I go home. You'll find it at 'Rockport' to-morrow."
She smiled up at me brightly, saying contentedly, "Oh, you are always all right, Phil."
As we trailed into the kitchen from the water melon feast, Lettie Conlow's dress caught on a nail in the floor. I stooped to loose it, and rasped my hand against a brier clinging to the floppy ruffle (Lettie was much given to floppy things in dress), and behold, a sprig of little red blossoms was sticking to the prickles. These blooms were the kind Marjie had sent me in her letter to Topeka. They grew only in the crevices about the cliff. It flashed into my mind instantly that it was Lettie who had passed me down on that ledge.
"I suppose I'll find her under my plate some morning when I go to breakfast," I said to myself. "She is a trailer of the Plains. Why should she be forever haunting my way, though?"
Fate was against me that night. Judson was called from the party to open the store. A messenger from Red Range had come posthaste for some merchandise. We did not know until the next day that it was the burial clothes for the beautiful young girl whose grave held Dave Mead's heart.