A faint, scornful smile touched her lips. "Ever since when, Tom?"

"You know when well enough. Ever since I shot Buck Weaver."

"And left me to pay forfeit," she suggested quickly, and as quickly
broke off. "Hadn't we better talk of something else? I've tried to avoid
this. Must we thrash it out?"

"You can't throw me over like that, after what's been between us. I
reckon you pretend to have forgotten that I used to keep company with
you."

A flush of annoyance glowed through the tan of her cheeks, but her eyes
refused to yield to his. "Nonsense! Don't talk foolishness, Tom. We were
just children."

"Do you mean that everything's all off between us?"

"We made a mistake. Let us be good friends and forget it, Tom," she
pleaded.

"What's the use of talking that way, Phyl?" He swung from the saddle,
and came toward her eagerly. "I love you--always have since I was
knee-high to a grasshopper. We're going to be married one of these
days."

She held up a hand to keep him back. "No--we're not. I know now that
you're not the right man for me, and I'm not the right girl for you."