d terrible knowledge that she had taken human life.

She sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, and Harlan said no word
to her, standing motionless, his arms folded, one hand slowly caressing
his chin, as he watched her.

After a time, drawing a long, shuddering breath, she looked up at him.

"How did you know--what made you come--here?" she asked.

"I wasn't reckonin' to sleep tonight--havin' thoughts--about things," he
said. "I was puttin' in a heap of my time settin' in the doorway of the
bunkhouse, wonderin' what had made you so scared of me. While I was
tryin' to figure it out I saw Lawson comin'. There was somethin' in his
actions which didn't jibe with my ideas of square dealin', an' so I kept
lookin' at him. An' when I saw him prowlin' around, tryin' to open doors
an' windows, why, I just naturally trailed him. An' I found the window he
opened. I reckon that's all."

She got up, swaying a little, a wan smile on her face that reflected her
astonishment and wonder over the way she had jumbled things. For this
man--the man she had feared when she had left him standing outside the
door some hours before--had been eager to protect her from the other, who
had attacked her. He had been waiting, watching.

Moreover, there was in Harlan's eyes as he stood in the room a
considerate, deferential gleam that told her more than words could have
conveyed to her--a something that convinced her that he was not the type
of man she had thought him.

The knowledge filled her with a strange delight. There was relief in her
eyes, and her voice was almost steady when she again spoke to him:

"Harlan," she said, "did father really send you here? Did he make you
promise to come?"

"I reckon he did, ma'am," he said.

For an instant she looked fairly at him, intently searching his eyes for
indications of untruthfulness. Then she drew a long breath of conviction.

"I believe you," she said.

Harlan swept his hat from his head. He bowed, and there was an odd leap
in his voice:

"That tickles me a heap, ma'am. I don't know when I've heard anything
that pleased me more."

He backed away from her until he reached the doorway. And she saw his
eyes--wide and eloquent--even in the subdued light of the doorway.

"I'd go to sleep now, ma'am, if I was you. You need it a heap. It's been
a long day for you--an' things ain't gone just right. I don't reckon
there'll be anybody botherin' you any more tonight."

"And you?" she aske