I hurried off as quickly as I
could walk in chaps and spurs.
I found Miss Sampson sitting on a bench in the shade of a tree. Her
pallor and quiet composure told of the conquering and passing of the
storm. Always she had a smile for me, and now it smote me, for I in a
sense, had betrayed her.
"Miss Sampson," I began, awkwardly yet swiftly, "I--I got to thinking it
over, and the idea struck me, maybe you felt bad about this gun-fighter
Blome coming down here to kill Steele. At first I imagined you felt sick
just because there might be blood spilled. Then I thought you've showed
interest in Steele--naturally his kind of Ranger work is bound to appeal
to women--you might be sorry it couldn't go on, you might care."
"Russ, don't beat about the bush," she said interrupting my floundering.
"You know I care."
How wonderful her eyes were then--great dark, sad gulfs with the soul of
a woman at the bottom! Almost I loved her myself; I did love her truth,
the woman in her that scorned any subterfuge.
Instantly she inspired me to command over myself. "Listen," I said.
"Jack Blome has come here to meet Steele. There will be a fight. But
Blome can't kill Steele."
"How is that? Why can't he? You said this Blome was a killer of men.
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