“You, girl!” he said.
Then she burst out, half-sobbing, “Oh, Jim, Jim! I was afraid I ‘d be too late. Oh, Jim, Gran wouldn’t let—”
“Too late!” said the man; he spoke apparently with an effort, but in such grave, cultured tones that Fisher, who was a man of but little education, himself stood silent with wonder. “Too early, I think. I told you how it would be, Nell. I believed in you, Nell, so help me God, I did, but I saw you this afternoon with that man, and now you have betrayed me. You will have it then,” and before Fisher could stop him or shield her, he had drawn a pistol from his belt and shot her in the breast. So close she was there was not a chance of missing, and she fell backwards and lay there in the dusty track, the pale moonlight lighting up her fair hair, and the dark stain widening, widening, on the bosom of her dress.
Fisher’s first thought was for vengeance, but his hand shook and his shot flew wide, and the other man, apparently giving no heed to him, flung himself from his saddle on to the ground beside the girl.
“Oh, Nell, Nell, little girl, and I trusted you.”
She put her little bloodstained hand on his arm, and smiled up into his face with such a world of love in the dying eyes, that Fisher looking on dared not for very pity mar her last moments by word or sigh.
Time enough when she was gone, for the two men to settle accounts.
“Jes’ so,” she gasped, her one idea strong in death; “I was—near, too late—don’—go—nigh the camp. Ben Fisher—will—shoot the ghost—on—sight.”
“But—but—”
Pity for the girl, dying misjudged by the hand she loved, impelled Fisher to speak.