“I beg your pardon, Mister,” she said quaintly, “fer that day at the Holdin’ an’ th’ meal I offered an’ took, an’ fer my words. I know now that you are––that you were––straight. I don’t 174 yet know what you may mean in Lost Valley with your talk of Government, but I do know you ain’t a Courtrey man.”
Kenset took the hand. It was firm and shapely and vibrant with the young life there was in her. He laid his other one over it and held it in a close clasp for a moment.
“I mean only right,” he said, “sanity and law and decency. I think I have a big problem to handle here––aside from my work on the forest––a problem I must solve before I can be effective in that work––and I am more sincerely glad than I can say that my friend, the outlaw, took that warning shot at me. It ruined a perfectly good saddle, but it has made one point clear to you. I am no Courtrey man, and that’s a solemn fact.”
“An’ I ain’t ashamed to say I’m glad, too,” said Tharon.
So, with the sun shining in the cloud-flecked heavens and the little winds blowing up from the south to ruffle the hair at the girl’s temples, these two sat by the Silver Hollow and talked of a thousand things, after the manner of the young, for Kenset found himself reverting to the things of youth in the light of Tharon’s grave simplicity.
They looked into each other’s eyes and found there strange depths and lights. They were aliens, strangers, groping dimly for a common ground, 175 and finding little, though presently they fell once more upon the law in Lost Valley and earnestness deepened into gravity.
“Miss Last,” said Kenset, thrilling at his daring, “why must this law dwell in these?” and he reached a hand to tap the gun on her lap.
“Why? That very question’d show your ignorance to any Lost Valley man. Because it’s all there is. You’ve seen Courtrey. You’ve seen Steptoe Service. Can’t you judge from them?”
“Surely, so far as they two go. A bad man and a bad sheriff. But they are not all the officers of this County. Where and who is your Superior Judge?”
“Poor ol’ Ben Garland. Weaker’n skim milk. Scared to say his soul’s his own.”