Yes, a woman, or, rather a young girl, for she was none other than Ruth Ramsey, who, quickly discovering an unlooked-for obstacle in her path, attempted to draw rein. But she was too late; her steed was a willful animal, not easily checked, and before she could come to a halt the outlaw leader spurred alongside of her, and his left hand grasped her bridle rein.
“Leo Randolph! You here!” she demanded.
It was all she could say, and across her face swept a deathly pallor.
“Yes, sweet Ruth, your lover of lang syne is delighted to behold you once more,” said the chief, with irony in his voice.
“It was proven you were an outlaw,” she said, “the leader of a wild and desperate band; men called you Kansas King because you ruled the border and none dare face you. Yes, all these things were proven, and—and—I found I had loved unworthily.”
Ruth spoke half aloud, her eyes downcast, as though musing with the past.
“Ruth, all these things were told against me; what was proven was that I had been brought up by a fond mother who idolized her boy, yet upon whose life a stain rested, and hence the curse fell upon the son. That mother died, Ruth, and then came the news to her son that a brand rested upon his life.
“Was it any wonder, then, that he threw away the advantages bestowed upon him by his loving mother, and became a wild and reckless outcast? Oh, Ruth, you cannot know how I have suffered, and what a curse, a misery, my life has been. If you knew you would pity me—and pity begets love—’tis said. You did love me once, Ruth.”
The outlaw chief laid his hand softly upon the gloved hand of the girl, who, quietly withdrawing the hand, replied kindly:
“I thought I loved you once, Leo; but I did not know my heart; and yet, had your life been different, and not a blot upon the earth, we might have been more to each other than lovers; but you have not forgotten that when my father exiled you from our home, and I told you I did not love you, you basely endeavored to carry me off.”