"Gone where?"

"Why, to the Palmetter," came out feebly from Nick; and then with a sudden change of manner, he added: "Oh, say, Girl, I likes you!" And here he laid his hand affectionately upon her shoulder. "You've been my religion--the bar an' you. Why, you don't never want to leave us--why, I'd drop dead for you."

"Nick, you're very nice to--" began the Girl, gratefully, and stopped, for at that instant a gentle tap came upon the door. Turning swiftly, she saw Johnson coming towards her.

"Girl!" he cried in an agony of joy, and held out his arms to receive her.

"You? You?" she admonished softly.

"Don't say a word," he whispered hurriedly.

"You shouldn't have come back," she said with knitted brow.

"I had to--to say good-bye once more." And his voice was so filled with tenderness that she readily forgave him for the indiscretion.

"It's all right, it's all right," murmured Nick, his hand still on the door, which he had taken the precaution to bolt after the Girl had pa.s.sed through it.

There was a moment's silence; then, going over to the windows, the Girl pulled down the curtains.

"The boys are good for quite a little bit," she said as she came back.

"Don't git nervous--I'll give you warnin' . . ."

Nick, unwilling to witness the heartrending scene which he foresaw would follow, noiselessly withdrew into the bar-room, leaving the prisoner alone with the Girl.

"Don't be afraid, my Girl," said Johnson, softly.

But the Girl's one thought, after her first gladness, was of his safety:

"But you can't git away now without bein' seen?"

"Yes, there's another way out of Cloudy,--and I'm going to take it."

The grimness of his meaning was lost on the Girl, who answered urgently:

"Then go--go! Don't wait, go now!"

Johnson smiled a sad little smile:

"But remember that I'm sorry for the past, and--and don't forget me," he said, with an odd break in his voice,--so odd that it roused the Girl into startled wonderment.

"Forget you? Why, d.i.c.k . . .!"

"I mean, till we meet again," he rea.s.sured her hastily.

The Girl heaved a troubled sigh. Her fears for him were still on edge.

Then, with a nervous start, she asked:

"Did he call?"

"No. He'll--he'll warn me," Johnson told her unsteadily.

"Oh, every day that dawns I'll wait for a message from you. I'll feel you wanting me. Every night I'll say to-morrow, and every to-morrow I'll say to-day . . . Oh, you've changed the whole world for me! I can't let you go, but I must, d.i.c.k, I must . . ." And bursting into tears, she buried her face on his shoulder, repeating piteously, between shaking sobs, "Oh, I'm so afraid,--I'm so afraid!"

He held her close, the strength of his arms around her rea.s.suring her silently. "Why, you mustn't be afraid," he said in tones that were almost steady. "In a few minutes I'll be quite free, and then--"

"An' you'll make a little home for me when you're free--soon--will you?"

asked the Girl, with a wan smile dawning on her trembling lips. She was drying her eyes and did not see how the light died out of the man's face, as he gazed down at her hungrily, hopelessly. This time he could not trust himself to speak, but merely nodded "yes."

"A strange feelin' has come over me," went on the Girl, brokenly, "a feelin' to hold you--to cling to you--not to let you go. Somethin' in my heart keeps sayin', 'Don't let him go!'"

Johnson felt his knees sagging oddly beneath him. The Girl's sure instinct of danger, the piteousness of their case, were making a coward of him. He tore himself from her in a panic desire to go while he still had the manhood to play his part to the end; then suddenly broke down completely, and with his face buried in his hands, sobbed aloud.

"Why, Girl," he managed to say, brokenly, "it's been worth--the whole of life just--to know you. You've brought me nearer Heaven,--you, to love a man like me!"

"Don't say that, Oh, don't say that," she hastened to say with a great tenderness in her voice. "S'pose you was only a road agent an' I was a saloon keeper. We both came out o' nothin' an' we met, but through lovin' we're goin' to reach things now--that's us. We had to be lifted up like this to be saved."

Johnson tried to speak, but the words would not come. It was, therefore, with a feeling of relief that, presently, he heard Nick at the door, saying, "It's all clear now."

Johnson wheeled round, but Nick had flown. Turning once more to the Girl, he said with trembling lips:

"Good-bye!"

The Girl's face wore a puzzled look, and she told him that he acted as if they were never going to meet again.

"An' we are, we are, ain't we?" she questioned eagerly.

A faint little smile hovered about the corners of the road agent's mouth when presently he answered:

"Why, surely we are . . ."

His words cleared her face instantly.

"I want you to think o' me here jest waitin'," she said. "You was the first--there'll never be anyone but you. Why, you're the man I'd want sittin' across the table if there was a little kid like I was playin'

under it. I can't say no more 'n that. Only you--you will--you must get through safe an' come back--an' well, think o' me here jest waitin', jest waitin', waitin' . . ."

At these words a tightness gripped the man's throat, and in the silence that followed the tears ran steadily down his cheeks.

"Oh, Girl, Girl," at last he said, "that first night I went to your cabin I saw you kneeling, praying. Say that in your heart again for me now. Perhaps I believe it--perhaps I don't . . . I hope I do--I want to--but say it, say it, Girl, just for the luck of it--say it . . ."

Quickly the Girl crossed herself, and while she sent a silent prayer to Heaven Johnson knelt at her knees, his head bowed low.

"G.o.d bless you," he murmured when the prayer was finished and arose to his feet; then bending over her hand he touched it softly with his lips.

"Good-bye!" he said chokingly and started for the door.

"Good-bye!" came slowly in return, her face no less moist than his.

Presently she murmured like one in a dream: "d.i.c.k, d.i.c.k!"