"He told me. You're the man who shot Jim Eberly."
Mr. Hampton was never of a pronounced emotional nature, nor was he a
person easily disconcerted, yet he flushed at the sound of these
impulsive words, and the confident smile deserted his lips. For a
moment they sat thus, the dead body lying between, and looked at each
other. When the man finally broke the constrained silence a deeper
intonation had crept into his voice.
"My girl," he said gravely, and not without a suspicion of pleading,
"this is no place for me to attempt any defence of a shooting affray in
a gambling-house, although I might plead with some justice that Eberly
enjoyed the honor of shooting first. I was not aware of your personal
feeling in the matter, or I might have permitted some one else to come
here in my stead. Now it is too late. I have never spoken to you
before, and do so at this time merely from a sincere desire to be of
some assistance."
There was that in his manner of grave courtesy which served to steady
the girl. Probably never before in all her rough frontier experience
had she been addressed thus formally. Her closely compressed lips
twitched nervously, but her questioning eyes remained unlowered.
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