“But what’ll you tell her? She’ll ask. She’ll find out you wouldn’t. You won’t can say you saw him dying, and didn’t bring him home!”
That was true. He had begun to think of that. Libby Keith would leave no detail of that death undiscovered.
“Will you say you went away and left him there to die?”
What else could he say? He certainly wouldn’t tell that for one long rejoicing moment he had stood looking into the eyes that so terribly besought him—those eyes that were dying prayers, ultimate beseechings—and had turned victoriously away. He wouldn’t say that he had told the men who were seeking a ride home for that snake, that he had too heavy a load for so essential a favor. He wouldn’t tell how shortly he had answered them, and how hatefully turned on his heel and departed.
“Wully!” she said, after a little, with conviction, “we ought to go back and get him! We can’t treat Auntie this way!”
“Can’t we!” he exclaimed bitterly. “Giddup!” he cried to his horses.
He felt her wretchedness. He hardened his heart against her sentimentality. Presently she said imploringly;
“We can’t do this, Wully. We must go back!”
“I will not!” He spoke passionately.
When she spoke again, it was to warn him.