"No," Sims said, with some interest. "No, She liked it. She 'd been shut up in a dirty little back street and she was crazy about it—about outdoors. She liked it. She did n't seem to mind the way he treated her. She was used to that. Her old man had been a bad one—from what she said—used to get drunk and beat her up."
Colburn was not interested in that part of the story. He interrupted: "What did he shoot her for?"
Sims drew a long tremulous breath, like a man on trial who is asked a question that involves his whole defense. "Well," he said, "I—I was sorry for her. She never looked to me for anything—any more than a dog would if the man that owned it kicked it. And at first I said to myself it was none of my business. But she—she looked after things for us like a mother—and I could n't stand it. I—"
Colburn put in: "You got her to run away?"
Sims nodded, swallowing dryly.
"And he caught you?"
"He was laying for us, I guess."
"How did he know?"
Sims shook his head. "I never found out. He must 've been watching us. We thought he 'd gone off to shoot something for dinner—and we saddled the pony and struck off on the trail to the railroad. It was a ninety-mile ride—if we 'd made it … He was laying for us in a bit of woods—took us head-on from behind a tree. The first shot rapped me on the shoulder, and then the next one fetched the horse and
