Keith swore in a whisper, and his fingers closed upon the cinch. It was no use to fight the devil with cunning, he thought, bitterly.
Just then Beatrice gave an unearthly screech, that made the horses' knees bend under them. When Keith whirled to see what it was, she was standing upon the rock, with her skirts held tightly around her, like the pictures of women when a mouse gets into the room.
“Oh, Mr. Cameron! A sn-a-a-ke!”
Came a metallic br-r-r, the unmistakable war cry of the rattler. Into Kelly's eyes came a look of fear, and he sidled gingerly. The buzz had sounded unpleasantly close to his heels. For one brief instant the cold eye of his rifle regarded harmlessly the hillside. During that instant a goodly piece of sandstone whinged under his jaw, and he went down, with Keith upon him like a mountain lion. The latter snatched the rifle and got up hurriedly, for he had not forgotten the rattler. Kelly lay looking up at him in a dazed way that might have been funny at any other time.
“I wondered if you were good at grasping opportunities,” said Beatrice. When he looked, there she was, sitting down on the rock, with her little, gloved hands folded in her lap, and that adorable demure look on her face; and a gleam in her eyes he knew was not scorn, though he could not rightly tell what it really did mean.
Keith wondered at her vaguely, but a man can't have his mind on a dozen things at once. It was important that he keep a sharp watch on Kelly, and his eyes were searching for a gleaming, gray spotted coil which he felt to be near.
“You needn't look, Mr. Cameron. There isn't any snake. It—it was I.”
“You!” Keith's jaw dropped.
“Look out, Mr. Cameron. It wouldn't work a second time, I'm afraid.”
Keith turned back before Kelly had more than got to his elbow; plainly Kelly was not feeling well just then. He looked unhappy, and rather sick.