So they betrayed guilt I had not suspected.
I sat down cross-legged before their sage-brush fire, and took a branch to light me a cigarette, while they stood watching, ill at ease, afraid, the woman making hysterical talk of the weather, the man judging distance to where the old Flukes mare grazed, jangling her bronze bell.
"Sit down, compadre," said I to the man. "We've got to talk this over. Won't you ask the señora to take a seat? Oh, pray be seated. Believe me, I admire your good taste in selecting so lovely a woman to run away with—your friend's wife, too."
It is when the tone is soft that words come to an edge.
Covering the woman with his body, Red fumbled his holster open.
"The service side-arms," said I, "are badly hung, and take too long to draw," and my Colt beckoned him gently to a seat.
The man's face was deathly now, beaded with sweat.
"The señora will realize," said I, "that the woman is never to blame, whatever happens. When love is dead, vows break of their own accord, and lovers part; the woman to seek such solace as she can find, the man—believe me, an imperfect brute—to wish her every kind of happiness. Is this understood?"
"'Ere, cut that out!" said Saunders. "It's fight I want, not talk!"
"Last night," said I, "yonder in Lonely Valley, I read the tracks, the sign, and wished—believe me—that I might be a better husband. Yes, I put up my little sad prayer to that effect. I fear I bore you."