He smiled indulgently. “I’ll try to meet you there, this afternoon about three, if I can make it. But don’t wait longer.” He turned his back to her and presently went away with Chavis and Pickett.
She stood for a little time, watching them as they mounted down near the corral gate and rode away, and then she turned and observed Uncle Jepson standing near a corner of the house, smoking, and watching her. She forced a smile and went into the house.
A little after noon she saddled her pony and rode away toward the river. She had decided that perhaps Masten might keep his appointment in spite of the obvious insincerity that had been expressed on his face during their talk.
It was fully five miles to the grove at the head of the box canyon, and she made a leisurely ride of it, so that it must have been nearly two o’clock when she dismounted and hitched the pony to a tree. Seating herself on a flat rock near the canyon edge, she settled herself to wait.
It seemed a long time. Twice after half-past two she looked at her watch, impatiently. At three she looked again; and, disappointed, she was about to rise to go to her pony, when she heard the rapid drumming of hoofs near her.
With leaping heart and flushed face she turned her back to the direction from which the sounds seemed to come and waited listening, trying to appear unconcerned. She would make him believe she had not heard him. He did care, after all, enough to part with his companions—for her sake. She had misjudged him, and she was sincerely repentant. And when she heard his pony come to a halt near her she had to clench her hands to keep from turning to face him.
She heard him dismount, heard the rustle and crackling of twigs under his feet as he approached, and then, feeling that it would be futile to dissemble further, she turned, a smile on her lips.
Standing within five feet of her, grinning with amusement, was Tom Chavis. Curiously enough, despite her former fear of the man she did not fear him now, and after the first shock of surprise she looked at him composedly, for she half suspected that Masten had sent him, fearing that she would wait in spite of his admonition not to do so. She got up and faced Chavis.
“Mr. Masten couldn’t come, I suppose?” she said.
“That’s right,” he said, looking at her oddly; “he couldn’t come. You see, he’s sort of taken a shine to a biscuit shooter in Crogan’s, over in Lazette, an’ he couldn’t very well break away.”