“Bern, I’m sure—oh, I’m sure of it! All my life I’ve watched hunted men. I can tell what’s in them. And I believe you can ride and shoot and see with any rider of the sage. It’s not—not that I—fear.”
“Well, what is it, then?”
“Why—why—why should you come back at all?”
“I couldn’t leave you here alone.”
“You might change your mind when you get to the village—among old friends—”
“I won’t change my mind. As for old friends—” He uttered a short, expressive laugh.
“Then—there—there must be a—a woman!” Dark red mantled the clear tan of temple and cheek and neck. Her eyes were eyes of shame, upheld a long moment by intense, straining search for the verification of her fear. Suddenly they drooped, her head fell to her knees, her hands flew to her hot cheeks.
“Bess—look here,” said Venters, with a sharpness due to the violence with which he checked his quick, surging emotion.
As if compelled against her will—answering to an irresistible voice—Bess raised her head, looked at him with sad, dark eyes, and tried to whisper with tremulous lips.
“There’s no woman,” went on Venters, deliberately holding her glance with his. “Nothing on earth, barring the chances of life, can keep me away.”