"He told me."
"Then," said Honor, her eyes darkening, "he told you a lie."
He dropped back on the pillow. He had lost a lot of blood before Yaqui Juan found him and tied up his cut, and he looked white and spent. "Oh, Skipper, please.... Let's not drag it out. I saw your message to him."
"What message?"
"The one you sent to the steamer, after he'd lost his head and told you he loved you,—and—and asked you if you loved him." Difficult words; grotesque and meaningless, but he must manage with them. "I'm not blaming you, Skipper. I know I'm slow in the head beside Cart' and he can give you a lot that I can't. And nothing—hanging over him. You'd have played the game through to the last gun; I know that. But it wouldn't have been right for any of us. I'm glad Cart' blew up and told me."
Honor laid his hand gently back on the bedspread of exquisite Mexican drawnwork and stood up. "Carter showed you the telegram I sent him from Genoa?"
"Yes. He carries it always in his wallet."
"He told you it meant that I loved him?"
"Skipper, don't feel like that about it. It had to come out, some time." His voice sounded weary and weak.
She bent over him, speaking gently. "Be quiet, Jimsy; lie still. I'm going to bring Carter up here."