The answer came so slowly that it was barely audible. "Yes."

"Riding in Antelope Valley?"

"Yes."

"Let me see that gun." Weaver held out his hand for the rifle.

Phyllis looked at him and tried to fight against his domination; then
slowly she handed him the rifle. He broke and examined it. From the
chamber he extracted an empty shell.

Grim as a hanging judge, his look chiselled into her.

"I expect the lead that was in here is in my arm. Isn't that right?"

"I--I don't know."

"Who does, then? Either you shot me or you know who did."

Her gaze evaded his, but was forced at last to the meeting.

"I did it."

She was looking at him steadily now. Since the thing must be faced, she
had braced herself to it. It was amazing what defiant pluck shone out of
her soft eyes. This man of iron saw it, and, seeing, admired hugely the
gameness that dwelt in her slim body. But none of his admiration showed
in the hard, weather-beaten face.