"When I spoke to you the first time, out there by the stable, I was certain of you, though I dreaded to have you speak for fear you would say otherwise.

And if it hadn't been you, I believe I should have died." "An' if you'd find out, now, that I ain't Will Bransford," said Sanderson slowly, "what then ?" "That can't be," she said, looking him straight in the eyes, and holding his gaze for a long time, while she searched his face for signs of that playful deceit that she expected to see reflected there.
She saw it, evidently, or what was certainly an excellent counterfeit of it--though Sanderson was in no jocular mood, for at that moment he felt himself being drawn further and further into the meshes of the trap he had laid for himself--and she smiled trustfully at him, drawing a deep sigh of satisfaction and laying her head against his shoulder.
"That can't be," she repeated.

"No man could deceive a woman like that!" Sanderson groaned, mentally.

He couldn't confess now and at the same time entertain any hope that she would forgive him.
Nor could he--knowing what he knew now of Dale's plans--brutally tell her the truth and leave her to fight Dale single-handed, And there was still another consideration to deter him from making a confession.

By impersonating her brother he had raised her hopes high.
How could he tell her that her brother had been killed, that he had buried him in a desolate section of a far-off desert after taking his papers and his money?
He felt, from her manner when he had tentatively asked her to consider the possibility of his not being her brother, that the truth would kill her, as she had said.
Worse, were he now to inform her of what had happened in the desert, she might not believe him; she might indeed--considering that he already had dealt doubly with her--accuse him of being her brother's murderer! Again Sanderson groaned in spirit.