"Yes," he seemed to agree, clogged and heavy in his understanding.
"What happened to you, Ned? Are you hurt?"
She flung out of the saddle, confronting him in fresh concern.
"No, not hurt."
"What happened, Ned? What did they do?"
"They tried to drag my house down, and I shot a man. He's up there; he's dead. I shot him."
"Oh, well," she said, looking at him curiously, "what could they expect? They came here huntin' trouble, didn't they?"
"You must not go up there," he said in terrible earnestness. "You must go back home."
"You don't want to let 'em get your nerve that way, Ned," she admonished, her own composure regained. "Come on down to the creek and wash your face—you'll feel better then."
She took him by the arm and led him down to the water's edge, her horse following. The animal sprawled its forelegs and drank gratefully from the shallow stream, while Edith took the rifle and Rawlins bent down to refresh himself according to her counsel.
"Didn't you meet them?" he asked, with a start as if the thought had frightened him, the water wasting through his cupped hands.
"They turned off into the hills. Go ahead and wash."
He obeyed in a spiritless way, as if nothing mattered, now he had killed a man. One might as well wash as do anything else under the distressing circumstances.
"You knew you might have to shoot some of them if you held your own," she said gently, yet with a little
