Ashton clenched his hands and bent over in an agony of doubt and indecision.
“You devil!” he groaned.
“What! Because I’m willing to give her up, in order to see her saved?”
“Why don’t you shoot him, if you’re so anxious?” queried Ashton.
“And hang for it,” retorted the puncher. “You 281 can do it with an accident, and no risk. Anyway, that’ll make things easier for his wife––to have him meet a natural death. Won’t be anything said about why he was taken off. She hasn’t begun to suspect what’s going on between him and––”
Gowan paused, looked at the tent, and concluded: “I’ve done my part. I won’t say any more. But just you remember what I’ve told you. You won’t run any risk. Mr. Knowles hasn’t come back yet. There’ll be only them and me along, and we won’t be able to see you do it. Just remember what it will mean to her––just remember that––when you get him where a shove or a loosened spike––Savvy?”
He went to loosen the diamond hitch of the packs that he had brought with him from the ranch. Ashton sank back and lay brooding until the girl came from the tent and called to inquire how he felt. Too wretched to care about his appearance, he rose and went over to her.
“Oh!” she exclaimed at sight of his haggard face. “You are ill!”
“Only an attack of indigestion and loss of sleep––something I often have,” he lied. “A cup of coffee will set me up. Don’t worry. I’m strong––head doesn’t bother me at all this morning, except a numb feeling inside.”
“I shall dress the wound at once, while the coffee is boiling,” she replied. 282