He halted as if he had run sharply into a bar across the path. When he turned Helen had come close. Twilight was deep there in the shade of the peach-trees, but she could see his face, the hungry, flaring eyes.
“I—I haven't thanked you—yet—for bringing Bo home,” she whispered.
“Nell, never mind that,” he said, in surprise. “If you must—why, wait. I've got to catch up with that cowboy.”
“No. Let me thank you now,” she whispered, and, stepping closer, she put her arms up, meaning to put them round his neck. That action must be her self-punishment for the other time she had done it. Yet it might also serve to thank him. But, strangely, her hands got no farther than his breast, and fluttered there to catch hold of the fringe of his buckskin jacket. She felt a heave of his deep chest.
“I—I do thank you—with all my heart,” she said, softly. “I owe you now—for myself and her—more than I can ever repay.”
“Nell, I'm your friend,” he replied, hurriedly. “Don't talk of repayin' me. Let me go now—after Las Vegas.”
“What for?” she queried, suddenly.
“I mean to line up beside him—at the bar—or wherever he goes,” returned Dale.
“Don't tell me that. I know. You're going straight to meet Beasley.”
“Nell, if you hold me up any longer I reckon I'll have to run—or never get to Beasley before that cowboy.”