"You might as well beat a drum as wear that white thing," he said uneasily, "But we'll stay in sight, anyhow. Over there by the fence, how's that?"
She agreed quietly. After the storm of the last few days, to have him near her, sober and quiet, was utter peace. And as he led the way, carrying the saddle for her to sit on, she felt that there was power and strength in him. Not only physical strength; a sort of courage. Like her grandfather, perhaps like all strong men, he had the courage of his sins. And his first words bore this out.
"You'd better get the straight of this, Kay. I've been drinking, and that's putting it mild. I expect you know it. Percy would sure have the little rope all ready, the minute I stumbled."
"I do know it, Tom."
"Then what are you out here for? That ought to be enough to spoil any—friendly feeling you had for me."
"I don't like it. But I've thought maybe we were to blame. I was to blame."
"Forget that! I've done it before. And the way things are I reckon I'm likely to do it again."
"What do you mean by the way things are, Tom?"
He looked away from her. He was trying to play the game, but she was making it hard for him.
"Between you and me." And after a pause, when she said nothing: "Where are we going from here, you and me? Well, I'll tell you. You're going back East, home, and in about a month or two you'll be saying: 'Oh yes, that cowpuncher out at the ranch! What was his name now? Let's see—McNair. That was it. Tom McNair.'"
"You don't really think that, do you?" she said, her throat tight. "You know better than that, Tom."
"Maybe not in a month. I'll give you two, or three." And then in a burst of passion: "For God's sake, girl, let me alone! I'm trying to play this game square. I've done some thinking tonight on the way out, and that's the only way I can play it. You go away and forget me. That's the best advice I can give you."
"And you? What advice are you giving yourself?"
