For he told her that Thornton, before he would ride
away last night, had made sure that Smith would accompany her, showing
her the way and "taking care of her." She bit her lip and turned away.
She was grateful that soon breakfast was eaten, the horses saddled and
once more she was riding out toward the south-east. Smith rode at her
elbow.
All morning they rode slowly, over rough trails in the mountains where a
horse found scant foothold, where they wound down into deep, close
walled canyons where the sunlight was dim at noon, where the pines stood
tall and straight in thick ranks untouched by an ax. They came out into
little valleys, past a half dozen ranch houses, saw many herds of cattle
and horses, crossed Indian Gully, topped another steep ridge and at last
looked down upon the Poison Hole ranch.
The ranch lay off to the east as they looked down upon it, a great sweep
of rolling hills sprinkled with big oaks looking like shrubs from their
vantage point, cut in two by the Big Little River, along the banks of
which and out in the meadow lands many herds of cattle ranged free.
Rising in his stirrup Smith pointed out to her the spot near the centre
of the big range where Buck Thornton's "range house" was, a dozen miles
away over the rolling country.
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