RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE
"That's enough—just Bess."
The red that deepened in her cheeks was not all the flush of fever. Venters marveled anew, and this time at the tint of shame in her face, at the momentary drooping of long lashes. She might be a rustler's girl, but she was still capable of shame; she might be dying, but she still clung to some little remnant of honor.
"Very well, Bess. It doesn't matter," he said. "But this matters—what shall I do with you?"
"Are—you—a rider?" she whispered.
"Not now. I was once. I drove the Withersteen herds. But I lost my place—lost all I owned—and now I'm—I'm a sort of outcast. My name's Bern Venters."
"You won't—take me—to Cottonwoods—or Glaze? I'd be—hanged."
"No, indeed. But I must do something with you. For it's not safe for me here. I shot that rustler who was with you. Sooner or later he'll be found, and then my tracks. I must find a safer hiding-place where I can't be trailed."
"Leave me—here."
"Alone—to die!"
"Yes."
"I will not." Venters spoke shortly with a kind of ring in his voice.
"What—do you want—to do—with me?" Her whispering grew difficult, so low and faint that Venters had to stoop to hear her.
"Why, let's see," he replied, slowly. "I'd like to take you some place where I could watch by you, nurse you, till you're all right again."
"And—then?"
"Well, it 'll be time to think of that when you're cured of your wound. It's a bad one. And—Bess, if you don't want to live—if you don't fight for life—you'll never—"
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