never heard a woman
laugh like that, had not dreamed that this girl's voice could grow so
bitter.

"No," she told him coldly. She jerked her pony's reins out of Thornton's
hand. "I am going to ride on. And I suppose you will ride that poor
wounded horse until it drops!"

"No," he said. "That's why I asked if you knew the trails. I didn't
notice he limped out there where I put the saddle on. It was dark under
the trees, you know."

"Was it?" she retorted sarcastically, drawing another quick, searching
look from him.

There was no call for an answer and he made none. He stepped to his
horse's head, lifted the wincing forefoot very tenderly, and stooping
close to it looked at it for a long time. The girl was behind the broad,
stooping back. Impulsively her hand crept into the bosom of her dress,
her face going steadily white as her fingers curved and tightened about
the grip of the small calibre revolver she carried there. And then she
jerked her hand out, empty.

She saw him straighten up, heard again the long, heavy sigh and marked
how his face was convulsed with rage.

"I don't know why a man did that." He was only ten steps away and yet
she turned her head a little sideways that she might catch the low
words. She shivered. His voice was cold and hard and deadly. It was
difficult for her to believe that in reality he had not forgotten her
presence.

"No, I don't know why a man did that. But I'm going to know. Yes, I'm
going to know if it takes fifty years."

"Where is my trail?" she called sharply. "I am going."

"You couldn't find it alone. I'm going with you."

Her scorn of him leaped higher in her eyes. It was her thought that he
was going to ride this poor, tortured brute. For she knew that there was
no other horse in the barn or about the camp. But he was quietly
loosening his cinch, lifting down the heavy Mexican saddle, removing the
bit from his horse's mouth.

"What are you going to do?" She bit her lips after the question, but it
had leaped out involuntarily.

"I'm going to leave him here for the present. The wound will heal up
after a while."

With the saddle thrown over his own shoulders, he ran a gentle hand over
the soft nose of his horse which was thrust affectionately against his
side, and turned away. She watched him, expecting him to go back to the
barn to leave his saddle and bridle. But instead he set his face toward
the hills beyond the cabin, where she supposed the trail was.

"I