door, and his face looked blacker than his beard.

"Oh!" she said, simply, as though hurt, and then with a dignity that
surprised her, the teamster turned and strode towards the back door.

"But I can git out, I reckon," he said, and he never looked at the widow
who had stopped, frightened, at the gate.

"Oh, I can't--I _can't!_" she said, and her voice broke; but the girl
gently pushed her to the door, where she stopped again, leaning against
the lintel. Across the way, the wounded Marcum, with a scowl of wonder,
crawled out of his bed and started painfully to the door. The girl saw
him and her heart beat fast.

Inside, Becky lay with closed eyes. She stirred uneasily, as though she
felt some hated presence, but her eyes stayed fast, for the presence of
Death in the room was stronger still.

"Becky!" At the broken cry, Becky's eyes flashed wide and fire broke
through the haze that had gathered in them.

"I want ye ter fergive me, Becky."

The eyes burned steadily for a long time. For two days she had not
spoken, but her voice came now, as though from the grave.

"You!" she said, and, again, with torturing scorn, "You!" And then she
smiled, for she knew why her enemy was there, and her hour of triumph
was come. The girl moved swiftly to the window--she could see the
wounded Marcum slowly crossing the street, pistol in hand.