"No, but you know what he is an' how he acts."
"I'll go where you want to go. I jes' thought, seein' how good to us Mrs. Gillespie has been, that maybe--"
"Well, we'll talk it over after supper," Bob said. "I'm for lighting out myself. To Laramie or Cheyenne, say."
As they had not eaten since breakfast they were a pair of hungry young animals. They did full justice to the steak, French frys, mince pie, and coffee Mrs. Gillespie had promised.
They hung for a moment awkwardly outside the dining-room. Both of them were looking for an excuse to avoid returning to their room yet.
They walked up the single business street and looked in the windows. The young husband bought his bride a paper sack of chocolates and they ate them as they strolled. Somehow they did not feel half as shy of each other in the open as when shut up together between the walls of a bedroom.
Dusk was beginning to fall. It veiled the crude and callow aspects of the frontier town and filled the hollows of the surrounding hills with a soft violet haze.
Bob's eyes met the dark orbs of June. Between them some communication flashed. For the first time a queer emotion clutched at the boy's heart. An intoxicating thrill pulsed through his veins. She was his wife, this shy girl so flushed and tender.
His hand caught hers and gave it a little comforting pressure. It was his first love gesture and it warmed her like wine.
She was grateful for so little. All her life she had been starved for love and friendship just as he had. Bob resolved to give them to her in a flood. A great tide of sympathy flowed out from him to her. He would be good to her. He wished she knew now how well he meant to look after her. But he could not tell her. A queer shame tied his tongue.
"Say, fellow, can I see you a minute?" he asked.
It was Dud Hollister. He drew Bob back into the smithy.
"Big guy in town lookin' for you. He's tankin' up. You heeled?"
Bob felt as though his heart had been drenched with ice water. Houck was here then. Already.
"No, I--I don't carry a gun," he replied, weakly.
"Here's mine. Shoots just a mite high, but she's a good old friend." Dud pressed a six-shooter on Dillon.
The boy took it reluctantly. The blood in his veins ran cold. "I dunno. I reckon mebbe I better not. If I talked to him, don't you think--?"