"I reckon I can stand the grief. When I've had a bath and a good sleep I'll be good as new."
She asked timidly the question that filled her mind. "Did you—What about him?"
"Did I kill him? Is that what you mean?"
"Yes," she murmured.
"No, I reckon not. He was lying senseless when I left, but I expect he'll come to."
"Oh, I hope so ... I do hope so."
He looked at her, asking no questions. Some men would have broken into denunciation of the scoundrel, would have defended the course they had followed. This man did neither the one nor the other. She might think what she pleased. He had fought from an inner compulsion, not to win her applause. No matter how she saw it he could offer no explanations or apologies.
"I hope so because—because of you," she continued. "Now I know him for what he is. I'm through with him for always." Then, in a sudden burst of frankness: "I never did trust him, really."
"You've had good luck. Some women find out things too late," he commented simply.
After that they rode in silence, except at long intervals when she asked him if he was in pain or too tired to travel. The lightening of the sky for the coming dawn found them still in the saddle with the jagged mountain line rising vaguely before them in the darkness like a long shadow. Presently they could make out the gash in the range that was Sieber's Pass.