Whispering Smith
“Would you ride away from me just because you have a better horse?”
“No, not just because I have a better horse.”
He looked steadily at her without speaking.
“Why must you ride home with me when I don’t want you to?” she asked reproachfully. Fear had come upon her and she did not know what she was saying. She saw only the expression of his eyes and looked away, but she knew that his eyes followed her. The sun had set. The deserted street lay in the white half-light of a mountain evening, and the day’s radiance was dying in the sky. In lower tones he spoke again, and she turned deadly white.
“I’ve wanted so long to say this, Dicksie, that I might as well be dead as to try to keep it back any longer. That’s why I want to ride home with you if you are going to let me.” He turned to stroke her horse’s head. Dicksie stood seemingly helpless. McCloud slipped his finger into his waistcoat pocket and held something out in his hand. “This shell pin fell from your hair that night you were at camp by the bridge—do you remember? I couldn’t bear to give it back.”
Dicksie’s eyes opened wide. “Let me see it. I don’t think that is mine.”
“Great Heaven! Have I been carrying Marion Sinclair’s pin for a month?” exclaimed Mc-
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