I found Miss Sampson sitting on a bench in the shade of a tree. Her
pallor and quiet composure told of the conquering and passing of the
storm. Always she had a smile for me, and now it smote me, for I in a
sense, had betrayed her.

"Miss Sampson," I began, awkwardly yet swiftly, "I--I got to thinking it
over, and the idea struck me, maybe you felt bad about this gun-fighter
Blome coming down here to kill Steele. At first I imagined you felt sick
just because there might be blood spilled. Then I thought you've showed
interest in Steele--naturally his kind of Ranger work is bound to appeal
to women--you might be sorry it couldn't go on, you might care."

"Russ, don't beat about the bush," she said interrupting my floundering.
"You know I care."

How wonderful her eyes were then--great dark, sad gulfs with the soul of
a woman at the bottom! Almost I loved her myself; I did love her truth,
the woman in her that scorned any subterfuge.

Instantly she inspired me to command over myself. "Listen," I said.
"Jack Blome has come here to meet Steele. There will be a fight. But
Blome can't kill Steele."

"How is that? Why can't he? You said this Blome was a killer of men. You
spoke of notches on his gun. I've heard my father and my cousin, too,
speak of Blome's record. He must be a terrible ruffian. If his intent is
evil, why will he fail in it?"

"Because, Miss Sampson, when it comes to the last word, Steele will be
on the lookout and Blome won't be quick enough on the draw to kill him.