“Well, he hasn’t.” Betty put her arms round his neck with a warm rush of feeling. Motives are usually mixed in the most simple of us. Perhaps in the back of her mind there was an intuition that the road to her desire lay through affection and not argument. “I can’t row with you now, Daddikins, when you’re wounded and hurt. I’m so worried about you. I thought--a while ago--when I saw you lying on the ground and that murderer shooting at you--” She stopped, to steady a voice grown tremulous in spite of herself. He stroked her black hair softly. “I know, li’l’ girl. But it’s all right now. Just a clean flesh wound. Don’t you feel bad,” he comforted. “And then that boy. I don’t want us to rush into doing anything that will hurt the poor fellow more. We’ve done enough to him. We’d feel awf’ly bad if we got him into trouble and he wasn’t the right man.” Reed surrendered, largely because her argument was just, but partly, too, because of her distress. “Have it your own way, Bess. I know you’re going to, anyhow. We’ll hear his story. If it sounds reasonable, why--” Her arms tightened in a quick hug and her soft cheek pressed against his rough one. “That’s all I want, Dad. I know Clint Reed. He’s what Dusty calls one square guy. If you listen to this tramp’s story, he’ll get justice, and that’s all I ask for him.” She dismissed the subject, sure in her young, instinctive wisdom that she had said enough and that more would be too much. “Is the leg throbbing, Daddy? Shall I run down to the creek and get water to bathe it? Maybe that would help the pain.” “No, you stay right here where it’s dark and quit talking. The boys may drive that fellow back up the creek. My leg’ll be all right till Rayburn sees it.” “You think he’ll come back here again?” she asked, her voice a-tremble. “Not if he can help it, you can bet on that. But if the boys hem him in, and he can’t break through, why, he’ll have to back-track.” The girl’s heart began to flutter again. She had plenty of native courage, but to lie in the darkness of the night in fear of an assassin shook her nerves. What would he do if he came back, hard-pressed by the men, and found her father lying wounded and defenseless? In imagination she saw again the horrible menace of his twisted face, the lifted lip so feral, the wolfish, hungry eyes. Would Lon Forbes never come back? What was he doing? What was keeping him so long? He had had time long since to have reached the house and hitched a team. Maybe he was wasting precious minutes at the telephone trying to get the sheriff. A dry twig crackled in the willows and Betty’s hand clutched spasmodically at her father’s arm. She felt rather than saw his body grow taut. There came a sound of something gliding through the saplings. Betty scarce dared breathe. A patter of light feet was heard. Clint laughed. “A rabbit. Didn’t think it could be any one in the willows. We’d ’a’ heard him coming.” “Listen!” whispered Betty.