“But, Jane, you’ll forgive me, an’ be good friends again?”
“Never!” Jane did not mean all she said. She had come to understand these men of the ranges—their loneliness—their hunger for love. But in spite of her sympathy and affection she needed sometimes to be cold and severe.
“Jane, you owe me a good deal—more than you’ve any idea,” said Tex, seriously. “You’d never have been here but for me,” he said, solemnly.
Jane could only stare at him.
“I meant to tell you long ago. But I shore didn’t have nerve. Jane, I—I was that there letter writin’ fellar. I wrote them letters you got. I am Frank Owens.”
“No!” exclaimed Jane. She was startled. That matter of Frank Owens had never been cleared up. It had ceased to rankle within her breast, but it had never been forgotten. She looked up earnestly into the big fellow’s face. It was like a mask. But she saw through it. He was lying. He was brazen. Almost she thought she saw a laugh deep in his eyes.
“I shore am thet lucky man who found you a job when you was sick an’ needed a change ... An’ thet you’ve grown so pretty an’ so well you owe all to me.”
“Tex, if you really were Frank Owens, that would make a great difference. I owe him everything. I would—but I don’t believe you are he.”
“It’s a sure honest gospel fact,” declared Tex. “I hope to die if it ain’t!”
Jane shook her head sadly at his monstrous prevarication. “I don’t believe you,” she said, and left him standing there.