He paused, vainly watching the other's steady eyes for a sign.
"Go on." The Padre's smile was undiminished.
Buck made an impatient movement, and pointed at the horses.
"See them? Ther' they stand," he cried. "Ther' they'll sure stand till we both set out for the long trail. I got it all fixed. I got more than that fixed. See these guns?" He tapped one of the guns at his waist. "They're loaded plumb up. The belt's full of shots. I got two repeatin' rifles stowed away, an' their magazines are loaded plumb up, too. Wal--unless you say right here you're goin' to hit the trail with me, when--things get busy; unless you tell me right out you're goin' to let me square off jest a bit of the score you got chalked up agin me all these years by lettin' me help you out in this racket, then I'm goin' to set right out ther' by the old stockade, and when Bob Richards gets around, he an' as many of his dogone dep'ties as I can pull down are goin' to get their med'cine. They'll need to take me with you, Padre. Guess I'm sharin' that 'chair' with you, if they don't hand it me before I get ther'. What I'm sayin' goes, every word of it. This thing goes, jest as sure as I'll blow Bob Richards to hell before he lays hand on you."
The younger man's eyes shone with a passionate determination. There was no mistaking it. His was a fanatical loyalty that was almost staggering.
The Padre drew a sharp breath. He had not studied this youngster for all those years without understanding something of the recklessness he was capable of. Buck's lips were tightly compressed, his thin nostrils dilating with the intense feeling stirring him. His cheeks were pale, and his dark eyes flashed their burning light in the dim glow of the lantern. He stood with hands gripping, and the muscles of his bare arms writhed beneath the skin with the force with which they clenched. He was strung to an emotion such as the Padre had never before seen in him, and it left the older man wavering.
He glanced away.
"Aren't we worrying this thing on the crossways?" he said, endeavoring to disguise his real feelings.
But Buck would have none of it. He was in no mood for evasion. In no mood for anything but the straightest of straight talk.
"Ther's no crosswise to me," he cried bluntly, with a heat that might almost have been taken for anger. Then, in a moment, his manner changed. His tone softened, and the drawn brows smoothed. "Say, you bin better'n a father to me. You sure have. Can I stand around an' see you passed over to a low-down sort o' law that condemns innocent folks? No, Padre, not--not even for Joan's sake. I jest love that little Joan, Padre. I love her so desprit bad I'd do most anything for her sake. You reckon this thing needs doin' for her." He shook his head. "It don't. An' if it did, an' she jest wanted it done--which she don't--I'd butt in to stop it. Say, I love her that way I want to fix her the happiest gal in this country--in the world. But if seein' you go to the law without raisin' a hand to stop it was to make her happy, guess her chances that way 'ud be so small you couldn't never find 'em. If my life figures in her happiness, an' I'm savin' that life while you take your chance of penitentiary an'--the 'chair,' wal, I guess she'll go miserable fer jest as many years as she goes on livin'."