The arms that went round her were those of Old Dog Tray and not those of her lover. Hugh comforted her as best he could.
“You’re not to blame—not in the least. The men who contrived my murder are guilty of his death. You called on him for help. That’s all. He had lots of sand. Even if he had known what would happen to him he would have come to you. That’s the way game men are. They go through. If he were here and could speak to you he wouldn’t blame you—not a bit of it. He’d say it was just the luck of the day.”
“Yes, but—but——”
His voice went on, cheerful, even, matter of fact. The very sound of it banished despair. Her sobs diminished.
He led her to his horse.
“What—what’ll we do with—him?” she asked.
“I’ll arrange that when I get to town,” he told her.
Hugh made a foot rest of his hand and Vicky climbed to the saddle. He walked along the path beside her.
Once his hand went up comfortingly to find and press hers in the darkness.
She whispered, in a small voice she could not make quite steady, “You’re so good to me.”