re willing to take
Duncan's word for it?"

"Duncan's word, and the agreement which I found in the pocket of your
vest," she returned, without looking at him. "I suppose that is proof
enough?"

"Well," he said with a bitter laugh, "it does look bad for me, for a fact.
I can't deny that. And I don't blame you for thinking as you do. But you
heard what I told your father about the shooting of Doubler being a
plant."

"A plant?"

"A scheme, a plot--to make an innocent man seem guilty. That is what has
been done with me. I didn't shoot Doubler. I wouldn't shoot him."

She looked at him now, unbelief in her eyes.

"Of course you would deny it," she said.

"Well," he said resignedly, "I reckon that's all. I can't say that I
expected anything else. I've done some things in my life that I've
regretted, but I've never told a lie when the truth would do as well.
There is no reason now why I should lie, and so I want you to know that I
am telling the truth when I say that I didn't shoot Doubler. Won't you
believe me?"

"No," she returned, unaffected by the earnestness in his voice. "You were
at Doubler's cabin when I heard the shot--I met you on the trail. You
killed that man, Blanca, over in Lazette, for nothing. You didn't need to
kill him; you shot him in pure wantonness. But you killed Doubler for
money. You would have killed my father had I not been there to prevent
you. Perhaps you can't help killing people. You have my sympathy on that
account, and I hope that in time you will do better--will reform. But I
don't believe you."

"You forgot to mention one other crime," he reminded her in a low voice,
not without a trace of sarcasm.

"I have not forgotten it. I will never forget it. But I forgive you, for
in comparison to your other crimes your sin against me was trivial--though
it was great enough."

Again his bitter laugh reached her ears. "I thought," he began, and then
stopped short. "Well, I reckon it doesn't make much difference what I
thought. I would have to tell you many things before you would understand,
and even then I suppose you wouldn't believe me. So I am keeping quiet
until--until the time comes. Maybe that won't be so long, and then you'll
understand. I'll be seeing you again."

"I am leaving this country to-morrow," she informed him coldly.

She saw him start and experienced a sensation of vindictive satisfaction.

"Well," he said, with a queer note of regret in his voice, "that's too
bad.