cattle away from the trail—they're going to let this herd come on and load, now the damage is done. The news is all over the range to-day, and everybody's sore at you. Where are you going now?"
"Up to Pawnee Bend to sell my horse."
"Leavin'?"
Bill nodded, heavy with remorse for having brought this shadow of disaster to Zora's door. She was still friendly, in spite of the way she had come at him, and ready to be more than friendly, as he never had hoped she would be, only indulging the alluring speculation as another mirage of romance that he never could approach.
"I hoped you'd stay," she confessed wistfully, as for something gone. "But I don't see how you can stay now."
"I didn't think there was anything to stay for," Bill said miserably.
"Whatever there was you spoiled it."
"I'm sorry," Bill said, his contrition far deeper than the waters of the Cimarron.
"Where are you going when you sell your horse, Bill?"
"I was thinkin' of New Mexico, but I may make it California; I don't know."
"Oh, what made you do it! what made you do it!"
There was a shake in her voice; it broke at the end in asob. She turned her face away, to hide her tears, Bill knew. If he had suspected himself of treason to her before, he stood convicted of it now.
"I was a damn fool!" he said in abject bitterness.
