"But I do need to know it all. I need to know all they said, and--who said it."
Joan's eyes were blazing. Beasley made no attempt to conceal his satisfaction, and went on at once--
"Course I can't give you names. But the facts I don't guess I'm likely to forget--they made me so riled. They said that farm of yours was just a blind. It--it was--well, you'd come along here for all you could get--an' that----"
"That's enough," she cried. "You needn't tell me any more. I--I understand. Oh, the brutal, heartless ruffians! Tell me. Who was it said these things? I demand to know. I insist on the names. Oh!"
The girl's exasperation was even greater than Beasley had hoped for. He read, too, the shame and hurt underlying it, and his satisfaction was intense. He felt that he was paying her off for some of the obvious dislike she had always shown him, and it pleased him as it always pleased him when his mischief went home. But now, having achieved his end, he promptly set about wriggling clear of consequences, which was ever his method.
"I'd like to give you the names," he said frankly. "But I can't. You see, when fellers are drunk they say things they don't mean, an' it wouldn't be fair to give them away. I jest told you so you'd be on your guard--just to tell you the folks are riled. But it ain't as bad as it seems. I shut 'em up quick, feeling that no decent citizen could stand an' hear a pretty gal slandered like that. An' I'll tell you this, Miss Golden, you owe me something for the way I made 'em quit. Still," he added, with a leer, "I don't need payment. You see, I was just playin' the game."
Joan was still furious. And somehow his wriggling did not ring true even in her simple ears.
"Then you won't tell me who it was?" she cried.
"Then you--you are a despicable coward," she cried. "You--oh!" And she almost fled out of the hated creature's storeroom.
Beasley looked after her. The satisfaction had gone from his eyes, leaving them wholly vindictive.
"Coward, am I, ma'm!" he muttered. Then he looked at the order for furniture which was still in his hand.
The telling of the Padre's story cost Buck a wakeful night. It was not that he had any doubts either of the truth of the story, or of his friend. He needed no evidence to convince him of either. Or rather, such was his nature that no evidence could have broken his faith and friendship. Strength and loyalty were the key-note of his whole life. To him the Padre was little less than a god, in whom nothing could shake his belief. He honored him above all men in the world, and, such as it was, his own life, his strength, his every nerve, were at his service. Moreover, it is probable that his loyalty would have been no whit the less had the man pleaded guilty to the crime he was accused of.