to save you from your own blasted hot head. If I don’t, the folks around here may string up a robber.”
He looked at McQueen. “A. T., the Kid has proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the motive weren’t robbery. He brought in the payroll, so I’m advisin’ that, since no jury would convict him of robbery, you’d be smart not to press charges.”
“He’s square with us,” Bonnie said firmly.
“All right,” McQueen said. “But he’d better not cross my path again.
Charlie Wyatt spoke up. “Maybe he’d better put some distance between him and these parts.”
“I’m staying around until I find out who got my father,” Young said.
“Which ain’t smart,” Sack advised.
Young moved toward his horse. In the saddle, he looked at Bonnie. Her fixed gaze was upon him, strong with curiosity and bewilderment, and more. Somewhere in her face or behind it he saw and felt interest and challenge at work. He lingered a moment, just to return whatever it was she gave, then sent his horse toward the river at a slow trot.
Bonnie’s gaze followed Young until the night closed him off. When she looked for her father, he was nowhere about. Only Sack stood there, his face alerted as he watched Wyatt, who was talking in low tones among his men. Soon the riders walked their horses toward the corral and she walked up to Sack with extended hand.
“You handled it nicely,” she said. “I was looking for all sorts of trouble. Let’s hope there won’t be any.”
He took her hand and said nothing. He blew out his cheeks, which was his way of restraining a bellowing voice and advice he wanted to cram into her head: “Hell, girl, that’s foolish hopin’! It’s like the ’Pache trouble, just begun!”
Then he turned toward the house.
Alone, Bonnie looked toward the river. She was soon in the saddle riding down the road to Bacon. Ahead, a lone horseman drew up and listened. She rode on.
Young put his gun away when he recognized her. She drew up alongside him where they waited out a tense silence. She broke it, saying:
“I’ve been thinking about your reason for coming here. It might be better if you were a stage robber.”
He said nothing.
“I followed you because I don’t want any more trouble,” she said. “You and father got off to a bad start. I’m sure he’ll help you find the guilty person when he cools off. And you weren’t exactly friendly, coming here as you did.”
“I wanted your father to know I was dead serious. I still am. And if he can’t see it my way, next time I’ll——”
“There won’t be a next time, Young West.”
Taken unexpectedly, he stared at her. Then he was measuring the recklessness and command in her firm reply. With her so near, he saw these things and courage too behind her composed expression; even in the dim light of night he saw them rise up with speculation and judgment and eagerness in her; as though she felt duty bound to fashion the fabric of his destiny. He didn’t like the idea of a McQueen’s interference, though he did like her directness. He could not help that.
“Just what are you going to do?” she said.
“Haven’t had time to think about it.”
“Take time,” she demanded.
Something about her went through him like a drink of strong wine. He fought the clamor of his pulses and clung fast to the things he could think of clearly.
“I’m going to find out who shot my father.”
“You should have done that first. Now just what else are you going at backwards?”
“Suppose your father had a hand in it?”
“You’re mighty sure of that,” she said.
“What would you think if you were in my place, Bonnie?”
She looked up at the summer stars as if they had overtaken her, trapped her into a state of incertitude. Her voice was less calm when she said, “I’m sure father had no part in it.” When she spoke next there was a sharp edge to her low voice. “And I’ll fight against you. Young West, as hard as I’ve fought for you, if you want it that way—until you prove he did.”
“Then we’ll leave it that way,” he said, nudging his horse forward.
A burning anger flowed in him, made worse by the knowledge that it wasn’t entirely justified. But she wasn’t at all wise in thinking she could dominate him on the strength of her desire for peace.
They rode on to the edge of the river and let the horses drink. This was the parting place. She knew it and he knew it, and she realized that the ruse was thin when she said her saddle was loose. But she was thinking that he must cool off and look at trouble as something to avoid. What she felt was different, a personal indignation of neglect and a tremble of hurt, then a rush of anger to her brain. Against feuds and the men who refused to meet peace halfway. But these were all mere advance emotions to the one she was trying to suppress.
He was standing by her saddle with a hand on the horn. A vast sense of weakness in her was followed by a warm surge of blood that beat life into her pulses. She was drawn to him, fighting back, trying her utmost to restrain the hand that was falling to his.
She managed to draw her hand away, though he was not of the same mind. The touch of her fingers went through him like fire, and he grasped her hand, looked up into her face, searching for all that it gave and all that it withheld. He saw a pair of eyes gazing into his, unguardedly. Excitement stirred in them, vaguely in the pale mask of evening, but enough for expression. She was talking to him without spoiling what she said with inadequate words, telling him how she felt, asking if he could feel it as well.
He could not remember afterward how he drew her out of the saddle, whether she came or whether he lifted her bodily to the earth. But she was standing before him and his arms were drawing her closer to him. Her head went back and she stared into his face with trust and entreaty in her shining glance.
Her mouth was soft when he touched it. Warm and alive and like the hot winds that formed and whirled about him and through him, possessing him completely. And she returned all that he gave with clinging eagerness and little contented sighs. With the break, he seemed to know, as she did, that they were fused into one spiritual being. No matter what might follow this night, trouble or pain or broken ties, or open enmity between them, what had been done could never be undone.
She stepped back from him. He stood stock still looking at her, wondering what she had done to him, if he would ever again be the same. Everything seemed swept aside, as in a desert flood in which arroyos run rampant with water for a few hours today and look up dusty at the sun tomorrow. Then he was saying things he had no intention of saying:
“So you’d fight against me, Bonnie. I could take that payroll sack and hole up in some canyon and tell you where. You’d do nothing against me. Not you, Bonnie McQueen.”
The next thing he knew he was standing with thumbs in belt, frowning as though suddenly awake and aware of what he had said.
He got into the saddle and sat there for a few seconds. Then he said, “So long, Bonnie.”
She watched him go, heard the splashing in the shallows until it suddenly ceased. A muted shuffle of hoofs, a casual gait, and all sound died. He was gone. Still she stood there, motionless, knowing that nothing must happen to him.
4
EXIT THE SACATON KID
YOUNG RODE STRAIGHT for the lights of Bacon. Bonnie was too much in his mind for any clear thinking, and he rode on beyond the town for a time, feeling in fresh memory her clinging hands at his neck and the sweet pressure of her lips. But she was deeper than touch, and he was looking into her mind,