"No."
There was so much of hatred in the one short word which she flung at
him, so much of passionate contempt, that he looked at her wonderingly.
"What's the matter, Miss Waverly?" he asked, his voice a shade gentler.
"You seem all different somehow. Are you more tired than you thought?"
She laughed and the wonder grew in his eyes. He had 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.
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