ellect
and stirred her temperate blood. The news they had told her was _not_
true; he had been hung, and this was his ghost! He looked as white and
spirit-like in the moonlight, dressed in the same clothes, as when she
saw him last. He had evidently seen her approaching, and moved quickly
to meet her. But in his haste he stumbled slightly; she reflected
suddenly that ghosts did not stumble, and a feeling of relief came
over her. And it was no assassin of her father that had been prowling
around--only this unhappy fugitive. A momentary color came into her
cheek; her coolness and hardihood returned; it was with a tinge of
sauciness in her voice that she said:--

"I reckoned you were a ghost."

"I mout have been," he said, looking at her fixedly; "but I reckon I'd
have come back here all the same."

"It's a little riskier comin' back alive," she said, with a levity
that died on her lips, for a singular nervousness, half fear and half
expectation, was beginning to take the place of her relief of a moment
ago. "Then it was _you_ who was prowlin' round and makin' tracks in
the far pasture?"

"Yes; I came straight here when I got away."

She felt his eyes were burning her, but did not dare to raise her own.
"Why," she began, hesitated, and ended vaguely. "_How_ did you get
here?"

"You helped me!"

"I?"

"Yes. That kiss you gave me put life into me--gave me strength to get
away. I swore to myself I'd come back and thank you, alive or dead."

Every word he said she could have anticipated, so plain the situation
seemed to her now. And every word he said she knew was the truth. Yet
her cool common sense struggled against it.

"What's the use of your escaping, ef you're comin' back here to be
ketched again?" she said pertly.

He drew a little nearer to her, but seemed to her the more awkward as
she resumed her self-possession. His voice, too, was broken, as if by
exhaustion, as he said, catching his breath at intervals:--

"I'll tell you. You did more for me than you think. You made another
man o' me. I never had a man, woman, or child do to me what you did.
I never had a friend--only a pal like Red Pete, who picked me up 'on
shares.' I want to quit this yer--what I'm doin'. I want to begin by
doin' the square thing to you"--He stopped, breathed hard, and then
said brokenly, "My hoss is over thar, staked out. I want to give him
to you. Judge Boompointer will give you a thousand dollars for him. I
ain't lyin'; it's