There was no profit in jeering at Lindsay. He
was too entirely master of every situation that confronted him.
Within the hour Clay was wakened from sleep by another guard with word
that he was wanted at the office of the warden. He found waiting him
there Beatrice and her father. The girl bloomed in that dingy room
like a cactus in the desert.
She came toward him with hands extended, in her eyes gifts of
friendship and faith.
"Oh, Clay!" she cried.
"Much obliged, little pardner." Her voice went to his heart like water
to the thirsty roots of prickly pears. A warm glow beat through his
veins. The doubts that had weighed on him during the night were gone.
Beatrice believed in him. All was well with the world.
He shook hands with Whitford. "Blamed good of you to come, sir."
"Why wouldn't we come?" demanded the mining man bluntly. "We're here
to do what we can for you."
Little wells of tears brimmed over Beatrice's lids. "I've been so
worried."
"Don't you. It'll be all right." Strangely enough he felt now that it
would. Her coming had brought rippling sunshine into a drab world.
"I won't now. I'm going to get evidence for you. Tell us all about
it."
"Why, there isn't much to tell that you haven't read in the papers
probably. He came a-shootin' and was hit by a chair."
"Was it you that hit him?"
"Wouldn't I be justified?" he asked gently.
"But did you?"
For a moment he hesitated, then made up his mind swiftly.
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