"What could I have done then?"

"You might have left it to me. I am not so pious that I can't be merciful
to the sinner. But this man--this Brickney--was a vile scoundrel always,
and I wanted him locked up. I would have shot him myself, but I was tired
of doing the duty of the law. Yes, yes," he added, as he saw her smile a
little. "It is so. I have love for justice, even I, Pretty Pierre. Why
not justice on myself? Ha! The law does not its duty. And maybe some day
I shall have to do its work on myself. Some are coaxed out of life, some
are kicked out, and some open the doors quietly for themselves, and go
a-hunting Outside."

"They used to talk as if one ought to fear you," she said, "but"--she
looked him straight in the eyes--"but maybe that's because you've never
hid any badness."

"It is no matter, anyhow," he answered. "I live in the open, I walk in
the open road, and I stand by what I do to the open law and the gospel.
It is my whim--every man to his own saddle."

"It is ten years," she said abruptly.

"Ten years less five days," he answered as sententiously.

"Come inside," she said quietly, and turned to the door.

Without a word he turned also, but instead of going direct to the door
came and touched the broken shutter and the dark stain on one corner with
a delicate forefinger. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her on
the doorstep, looking intently.