Her face was
pale and she did not look at Hale. Nothing was said of Dave--in
fact, June said nothing at all, and Hale, too, vaguely
understanding, kept quiet. Only when he went out, Hale called her
to the gate and put one hand on her head.
"I'm sorry, little girl."
The girl lifted her great troubled eyes to him, but no word passed
her lips, and Hale helplessly left her.
June did not cry that night. She sat by the window--wretched and
tearless. She had taken sides with "furriners" against her own
people. That was why, instinctively, she had put on her old
homespun with a vague purpose of reparation to them. She knew the
story Dave would take back home--the bitter anger that his people
and hers would feel at the outrage done him--anger against the
town, the Guard, against Hale because he was a part of both and
even against her. Dave was merely drunk, he had simply shot off
his pistol--that was no harm in the hills. And yet everybody had
dashed toward him as though he had stolen something--even Hale.
Yes, even that boy with the cap who had stood up for her at school
that afternoon--he had rushed up, his face aflame with excitement,
eager to take part should Dave resist.
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