Sheila had turned her head from him. He was exhibiting a perfectly natural aversion toward visiting the man he had nearly killed, she assured herself with a shudder, and she felt no pity for him. He had done her a service, however, in appearing at the Double R at a most opportune time, and she was grateful. Therefore she lingered, finding it hard to choose words. "I am sorry," she finally said. "Thank you." He maneuvered his pony until the moonlight streamed in her face. "I reckon you've got the same notion as your father--that I shot Doubler?" he said, watching her narrowly. "You are willing to take Duncan's word for it?" "Duncan's word, and the agreement which I found in the pocket of your vest," she returned, without looking at him. "I suppose that is proof enough?" "Well," he said with a bitter laugh, "it does look bad for me, for a fact. I can't deny that. And I don't blame you for thinking as you do. But you heard what I told your father about the shooting of Doubler being a plant." "A plant?" "A scheme, a plot--to make an innocent man seem guilty. That is what has been done with me. I didn't shoot Doubler. I wouldn't shoot him." She looked at him now, unbelief in her eyes. "Of course you would deny it," she said. "Well," he said resignedly, "I reckon that's all. I can't say that I expected anything else. I've done some things in my life that I've regretted, but I've never told a lie when the truth would do as well. There is no reason now why I should lie, and so I want you to know that I am telling the truth when I say that I didn't shoot Doubler. Won't you believe me?" "No," she returned, unaffected by the earnestness in his voice. "You were at Doubler's cabin when I heard the shot--I met you on the trail. You killed that man, Blanca, over in Lazette, for nothing. You didn't need to kill him; you shot him in pure wantonness. But you killed Doubler for money. You would have killed my father had I not been there to prevent you. Perhaps you can't help killing people. You have my sympathy on that account, and I hope that in time you will do better--will reform. But I don't believe you." "You forgot to mention one other crime," he reminded her in a low voice, not without a trace of sarcasm. "I have not forgotten it. I will never forget it. But I forgive you, for in comparison to your other crimes your sin against me was trivial--though it was great enough." Again his bitter laugh reached her ears. "I thought," he began, and then stopped short. "Well, I reckon it doesn't make much difference what I thought. I would have to tell you many things before you would understand, and even then I suppose you wouldn't believe me. So I am keeping quiet until--until the time comes. Maybe that won't be so long, and then you'll understand. I'll be seeing you again." "I am leaving this country to-morrow," she informed him coldly. She saw him start and experienced a sensation of vindictive satisfaction.