You can see for yourself that I found it, partner.” He stirred, uneasily, but it was necessary that the story should be told lest it reach the ears of this man from another source. It was one thing to shelter a fugitive from justice whose crime was unknown, perhaps trifling, but it might be quite another story if this gentle, singular man learned that his guest was a new-made murderer. Better that he should learn the tale now and form his prejudices in favor of Gregg. “I'll tell you the whole story,” he began.
But the other shrugged his shoulders.
“You leave the story be,” he said, and there was something in the quiet firmness of his manner which made it impossible for Vic to continue. “You're here and you're hurt and you need a pile of rest. That's about enough story for me.”
Vic put himself swiftly in the place of the other. Suppose that he and Betty Neal should have a cabin off in the mountains like this, how would they receive a wounded fugitive from justice? As unquestioningly as this? In a surge of gratitude he looked mistily towards his host.
“Stranger,” he said, “you're white. Damned white. That's all. My name's Vic Gregg and I come from”
“Thanks,” cut in the other. “I'm glad to know your name but in case anybody might be askin' me I wouldn't care to know where you come from.” He smiled. “I'm Dan Barry.”
