Helen locked her fingers in the fringe of his jacket—leaned closer to him, all her being responsive to a bursting gust of blood over her.
“I'll not let you go,” she said.
He laughed, and put his great hands over hers. “What 're you sayin', girl? You can't stop me.”
“Yes, I can. Dale, I don't want you to risk your life.”
He stared at her, and made as if to tear her hands from their hold.
“Listen—please—oh—please!” she implored. “If you go deliberately to kill Beasley—and do it—that will be murder.... It's against my religion.... I would be unhappy all my life.”
“But, child, you'll be ruined all your life if Beasley is not dealt with—as men of his breed are always dealt with in the West,” he remonstrated, and in one quick move he had freed himself from her clutching fingers.
Helen, with a move as swift, put her arms round his neck and clasped her hands tight.
“Milt, I'm finding myself,” she said. “The other day, when I did—this—you made an excuse for me.... I'm not two-faced now.”
She meant to keep him from killing Beasley if she sacrificed every last shred of her pride. And she stamped the look of his face on her heart of hearts to treasure always. The thrill, the beat of her pulses, almost obstructed her thought of purpose.