“No,” said Kenset miserably, “not till the last.”
Slowly Tharon knelt down beside him and put a tender arm across his shoulders. Her face was shining––like Billy’s heart.
“Mr. Kenset,” she said softly, “I told you once that I was afraid you was soft––like a woman––that you wouldn’t shoot if you had a gun. An’ you said, ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t. Not until th’ last extremity.’
“What was this last extremity? Tell me. Why did you shoot when you knew right well I’d get him myself?”
“To beat you to it!” cried the man with sudden passion, “to take the stain myself!”
For a long moment the girl knelt there beside him and gazed unseeingly at the inscrutable calm of the silent country. Something in the depths of her blue eyes was changing––deepening, growing in subtle beauty, as if the universe was suddenly become perfect, as if there was nowhere a flaw.
“There’s only one kind of man, after all, Mr. Kenset,” she said at last with a sweet dignity, 276 “th’ man who is true an’ honest to th’ best there is in him, accordin’ to his lights. That’s my kind of man.”
Then she rose, and it was as if a light of activity burned up in her. She became practical on the instant.
“I’m glad you brought th’ thin rope, Billy,” she said, “it’s longer’n mine. An’ th’ little axe, too. We’ll need ’em all to get him up an’ down False Ridge. An’ we must get busy right pronto. Th’ Pomo killer we’ll leave where he is. The Cañon Country will make him a silent grave.”