Once something startled the horses outside, and he sat up and listened.
“They're here!” he said.
“I don't think so,” Bassett replied, and went to the doorway. “No,” he called back over his shoulder, “you go on and finish. I'll watch.”
“Come back and eat,” Dick said surlily.
He ate very little, but drank of the coffee. Bassett too ate almost nothing. He was pulling himself together for the struggle that was to come, marshaling his arguments for flight, and trying to fathom the extent of the change in the man across the small table.
Dick put down his tin cup and got up. He was strong again, and the nightmare confusion of the night had passed away. Instead of it there was a desperate lucidity and a courage born of desperation. He remembered it all distinctly; he had killed Howard Lucas the night before. Before long Wilkins or some of his outfit would ride up to the door, and take him back to Norada. He was not afraid of that. They would always think he had run away because he was afraid of capture, but it was not that. He had run away from Bev's face. Only he had not got away from it. It had been with him all night, and it was with him now.
But he would have to go back. He couldn't be caught like a rat in a trap. The Clarks didn't run away. They were fighters. Only the Clarks didn't kill. They fought, but they didn't murder.
He picked up his hat and went to the door.
“Well, you've been mighty kind, old man,” he said. “But I've got to go back. I ran last night like a scared kid, but I'm through with that sort of foolishness.”
“I'd give a good bit,” Bassett said, watching him, “to know what made you run last night. You were safe where you were.”