"It was thoughtful of you," Duane said. "Womankind are needed here. I could do so little. Mrs. Laramie, you look better already. I'm glad. And here's baby, all clean and white. Baby, what a time I had trying to puzzle out the way your clothes went on! Well, Mrs. Laramie, didn't I tell you--friends would come? So will the brighter side.""Yes, I've more faith than I had," replied Mrs. Laramie.
"Granger Longstreth's daughter has come to me. There for a while after Jim's death I thought I'd sink. We have nothing.
How could I ever take care of my little ones? But I'm gaining courage to--""Mrs. Laramie, do not distress yourself any more," said Miss Longstreth. "I shall see you are well cared for. I promise you.""Miss Longstreth, that's fine!" exclaimed Duane. "It's what I'd have--expected of you."It must have been sweet praise to her, for the whiteness of her face burned out in a beautiful blush.
"And it's good of you, too, Miss Herbert, to come," added Duane. "Let me thank you both. I'm glad I have you girls as allies in part of my lonely task here. More than glad for the sake of this good woman and the little ones. But both of you be careful about coming here alone. There's risk. And now I'll be going. Good-by, Mrs. Laramie. I'll drop in again to-night.
Good-by."
"Mr. Ranger, wait!" called Miss Longstreth, as he went out. She was white and wonderful. She stepped out of the door close to him.
"I have wronged your" she said, impulsively.
"Miss Longstreth! How can you say that?" he returned.
"I believed what my father and Floyd Lawson said about you. Now I see--I wronged you.""You make me very glad. But, Miss Longstreth, please don't speak of wronging me. I have been a--a gunman, I am a ranger--and much said of me is true. My duty is hard on others--sometimes on those who are innocent, alas! But God knows that duty is hard, too, on me.""I did wrong you. If you entered my home again I would think it an honor. I--""Please--please don't, Miss Longstreth," interrupted Duane.
"But, sir, my conscience flays me," she went on. There was no other sound like her voice. "Will you take my hand? Will you forgive me?"She gave it royally, while the other was there pressing at her breast. Duane took the proffered hand. He did not know what else to do.
Then it seemed to dawn upon him that there was more behind this white, sweet, noble intensity of her than just the making amends for a fancied or real wrong. Duane thought the man did not live on earth who could have resisted her then.
"I honor you for your goodness to this unfortunate woman," she said, and now her speech came swiftly. "When she was all alone and helpless you were her friend. It was the deed of a man. But Mrs. Laramie isn't the only unfortunate woman in the world. I, too, am unfortunate. Ah, how I may soon need a friend! Will you be my friend? I'm so alone. I'm terribly worried. I fear--Ifear--Oh, surely I'll need a friend soon--soon. Oh, I'm afraid of what you'll find out sooner or later. I want to help you.
Let us save life if not honor. Must I stand alone--all alone?
Will you--will you be--" Her voice failed.
It seemed to Duane that she must have discovered what he had begun to suspect--that her father and Lawson were not the honest ranchers they pretended to be. Perhaps she knew more!
Her appeal to Duane shook him deeply. He wanted to help her more than he had ever wanted anything. And with the meaning of the tumultuous sweetness she stirred in him there came realization of a dangerous situation.
"I must be true to my duty," he said, hoarsely.
"If you knew me you'd know I could never ask you to be false to it.""Well, then--I'll do anything for you."
"Oh, thank you! I'm ashamed that I believed my cousin Floyd! He lied--he lied. I'm all in the dark, strangely distressed. My father wants me to go back home. Floyd is trying to keep me here. They've quarreled. Oh, I know something dreadful will happen. I know I'll need you if--if--Will you help me?""Yes," replied Duane, and his look brought the blood to her face.
