"Very well, Bess. It doesn't matter," he said. "But this
matters--what shall I do with you?"
"Are--you--a rider?" she whispered.
"Not now. I was once. I drove the Withersteen herds. But I lost
my place--lost all I owned--and now I'm--I'm a sort of outcast.
My name's Bern Venters."
"You won't--take me--to Cottonwoods--or Glaze? I'd be--hanged."
"No, indeed. But I must do something with you. For it's not safe
for me here. I shot that rustler who was with you. Sooner or
later he'll be found, and then my tracks. I must find a safer
hiding-place where I can't be trailed."
"Leave me--here."
"Alone--to die!"
"Yes."
"I will not." Venters spoke shortly with a kind of ring in his
voice.
"What--do you want--to do--with me?" Her whispering grew
difficult, so low and faint that Venters had to stoop to hear
her.
"Why, let's see," he replied, slowly. "I'd like to take you some
place where I could watch by you, nurse you, till you're all
right."
"And--then?"
"Well, it'll be time to think of that when you're cured of your
wound. It's a bad one. And--Bess, if you don't want to live--if
you don't fight for life--you'll never--"
"Oh! I want--to live! I'm afraid--to die. But I'd
rather--die--than go back--to--to--"
"To Oldring?" asked Venters, interrupting her in turn.
Her lips moved in an affirmative.
"I promise not to take you back to him or to Cottonwoods or to
Glaze.
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