That night, she slept but little. With the morning, every nerve demanded
action, action. She felt as though if she could not spend herself in
physical exertion she would go mad. Taking her lunch, and telling her
companion that she was going for a good, full day with the trout; she was
starting off, when the woman called her back.
"You have forgotten Mr. Oakley's warning, dear. You are not to go unarmed,
you know."
"Oh, bother that old convict, Brian Oakley is so worried about," cried the
girl. "I don't like to carry a gun when I am fishing. It's only an extra
load." But, never-the-less, as she spoke, she went back to the porch;
where Myra Willard handed her a belt of cartridges, with a serviceable
Colt revolver in the holster. There was no hint of awkwardness when the
girl buckled the belt about her waist and settled the holster in its place
at her hip.
"You will be careful, won't you, dear," said the woman, earnestly.
Lifting her face for another good-by kiss, the girl answered, "Of course,
dear mother heart." Then, with a laugh--"I'll agree to shoot the first man
I meet, and identify him afterwards--if it will make you easier in your
mind. You won't worry, will you?"
Myra Willard smiled.
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