"
Now she was tempted to wheel her horse, to turn back, to camp alone
somewhere out there in the woods, or to ride the thirty miles back to
Dry Town. And now, remembering the bank notes which had been taken from
her, remembering the insult in the cabin, she held on after him,
resolved that she would not lose sight of this man, that she would see
him handed over to justice when she could taunt him, saying: "I didn't
shoot you, you see, because I am a woman and not a tough. But I have
given you into hands that are not woman's hands, because I hate you so!"
Her horse carried her on at a swift walk, but she did not have to draw
rein to keep from passing Thornton. His long stride was so smooth,
regular, swift and tireless that it soon began to amaze her. They had
passed through the little valley in which Harte's place stood, and
entered a dark canon leading into the steeper hills. The trail was
uneven, and now and then very steep. Yet Thornton pushed on steadily
with no slowing in the swift gait, no sign to tell that he felt fatigue
in muscles of back or legs.
"He must be made of iron," she marvelled.
In an hour they had come to the top of a ridge, and Thornton stopped,
tossing his saddle to the ground. He had not once spoken since they left
the Harte place.
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