“Did what--to whom--to where, to why?” Good Indian let go her arm, and began helpfully striving with the scraggly scrub and its prongs. “Say, I'll just about have to scalp you to get you loose. Would you mind very much, Squaw-talk-far-off?” He ducked and peered into her face again, and again his face sobered. “What's the matter?” he asked, in an entirely different tone--which Miss Georgie, in spite of her mood, found less satisfying than his banter. “Saunders--OUCH; I'd as soon be scalped and done with, as to have you pull out a hair at a time--Saunders crawled home with a bullet in his ribs. And I thought--” “Saunders!” Good Indian stared down at her, his hands dropped upon her head. Miss Georgie reached up, caught him by the wrists, and held him so while she tilted her head that she might look up at him. “Grant!” she cried softly. “He deserved it. You couldn't help it--he would have shot you down like a dog, just because he was hired to do it, or because of some hold over him. Don't think I blame you--or that anyone would if they knew the truth. I came out to see--I just HAD to make sure--but you must get away from here. You shouldn't have stayed so long--” Miss Georgie gave a most unexpected sob, and stopped that she might grit her teeth in anger over it. “You think I shot him.” As Good Indian said it, the sentence was merely a statement, rather than an accusation or a reproach. “I don't blame you. I suspected he was the man up here with the rifle. That day--that first day, when you told me about someone shooting at you--he came over to the station. And I saw two or three scraps of sage sticking under his shirt-collar, as if he had been out in the brush; you know how it breaks off and sticks, when you go through it. And he said he had been asleep. And there isn't any sage where a man would have to go through it unless he got right out in it, away from the trails. I thought then that he was the man--” “You didn't tell me.” And this time he spoke reproachfully. “It was after you had left that I saw it. And I did go down to the ranch to tell you. But I--you were so--occupied--in other directions--” She let go his wrists, and began fumbling at her hair, and she bowed her head again so that her face was hidden from him. “You could have told me, anyway,” Good Indian said constrainedly. “You didn't want her to know. I couldn't, before her. And I didn't want to--hurt her by--” Miss Georgie fumbled more with her words than with her hair. “Well, there's no use arguing about that.” Good Indian also found that subject a difficult one. “You say he was shot. Did he say--”