Alma was beside him in a bound, clinging to him, pleading to know what had happened. Barrett could see her face, dim and nebulous as a mist-hidden star, lifted to him in wild appeal.
"It was only—it was just—" Nearing groped, lost for a word to cover his cowardly attempt.
"I fired at something I imagined," Barrett said. "I was nervous after what happened today. I ought to have had more sense."
Grubb and Gustin came up, stumbling in the dark. They heard Barrett's explanation, and spoke to each other in low words. A white-clad figure stood in the door, the dim light of a lamp in an inner room reaching faintly into the hall.
"It's all right, Aunt Hope—it was Mr. Barrett, shooting at nothing," Alma explained, a tilt of contempt in her words.
"Nothing, nothing at all," said Nearing, catching quickly at the absolution offered, a comforting lightness in his relieved tone.
Manuel came around the house with a lantern, holding it high to peer under it. He stood so a moment, flooding the group with sudden light. Alma had thrown a cloak over her nightdress; her hair was in confusion. She stood clinging to her uncle's arm, the arm so lately lifted in murderous intent. A moment her great eyes swept Barrett, who stood a little distance farther along toward the gate; quick, searching, questioning eyes. From Barrett back to Nearing, and to the cattleman's empty holster. A wild light of revelation leaped into her face; she searched the ground in a fearful, sweep
