"
But, she tried to tell herself, Henry Pollard had sent for her, he was
her own mother's brother, he would not have had her come here if it were
not safe. He had written clearly enough, had told her in his letter that
he could not leave the Corners, that he must have the money, that there
were hold-up men in the country who would not hesitate to rob the stage
if they learned that he had five thousand dollars in it, that she could
bring the bills which Templeton would have ready for her and that there
would be no suspicion, no danger for her. And she would believe her
uncle, would believe that these people had had trouble with the Bedloes
and perhaps others in the town, and that they warped the truth in the
telling. For was any more faith to be put in the word of the Smiths than
in that of Buck Thornton himself? And did she not know him for what he
was, a man who was not above assaulting a defenceless girl, not above
robbery?
Wearied out, she went to sleep, her last waking thoughts trailing off
through the night after a man who could laugh like a boy, whose eyes
could grow very gentle or very, very hard and inexorable.
In the morning John Smith's first words to her drove again a hot, angry
flush into her face.
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