His mirth was genuine. “But right now I couldn’t get more than how much off y’u?”
“Sixty-three dollars is all I have with me, and I couldn’t give you more—not even if you put red hot irons between my fingers.” She gave it to him straight, her blue eyes fixed steadily on him.
Yet she was not prepared for the effect of her words. The last thing she had expected was to see the blood wash out of his bronzed face, to see his sensitive nostrils twitch with pain. He made her feel as if she had insulted him, as if she had been needlessly cruel. And because of it she hardened her heart. Why should she spare him the mention of it? He had not hesitated at the shameless deed itself. Why should she shrink before that wounded look that leaped to his fine eyes in that flash of time before he hardened them to steel?
“You did it—didn’t you?” she demanded.
“That’s what they say.” His gaze met her defiantly.
“And it is true, isn’t it?”
“Oh, anything is true of a man that herds sheep,” he returned, bitterly.
“If that is true it would not be possible for you to understand how much I despise you.”
“Thank you,” he retorted, ironically.
“I don’t understand at all. I don’t see how you can be the man they say you are. Before I met you it was easy to understand. But somehow—I don’t know—you don’t look like a villain.” She found herself strangely voicing the deep hope of her heart. It was surely impossible to look at him and believe him guilty of the things of which, he was accused. And yet he offered no denial, suggested no defense.