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'll pick up another horse at the next ranch," he offered casually by
way of explanation. "And we had better hit the trail. It's getting
late."
Wordlessly she followed, her eyes held, fascinated by the great, tall
bulk of him swinging on in front of her, carrying the heavy saddle with
as little care to its weight as if he had been entirely unconscious of
it, as no doubt such a man could be. She knew that already he had ridden
sixty miles today and that it was seven miles farther to the ranch where
he would get another horse. And yet there he strode on, swiftly, as
though he had rested all day and now were going to walk the matter of a
few yards.
She could not understand this man, whom, since she must, she followed.
Had he not told her there in the cabin when he had played at hiding his
identity from her, that he knew she was armed? And yet, encumbered with
the saddle upon his shoulder, his right hand carrying the bridle, he
turned his back square upon her with no glance to see if she were even
now covering him with her revolver.
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