“Why?” she questioned, defiantly.
“Well, for one thing, there’s a certain fascination about a place where one has been close to cashing in—I expect that when we’ve been in such a place we like to come back and look at it just to see how near we came to going over the divide. And there’s another reason why I expected to see you on the river trail again. You forgot to thank me for pulling you out.”
He deserved thanks for that, she knew. But there were in his voice and eyes the same subtle mockery which had marked his manner that other time, and as before she experienced a feeling of deep resentment. Why could he not have shown some evidence of remorse for his crime against her? She believed that had he done so now she might have found it in her heart to go a little distance toward forgiving him. But there was only mockery in his voice and words and her resentment against him grew. Mingling with it, moreover, was the bitterness which had settled over her within the last few days. It found expression in her voice when she answered him:
“This country is full of—of savages!”
“Indians, you mean, I reckon? Well, no, there are none around here—excepting over near Fort Union, on the reservation.” He drawled hatefully and regarded her with a mild smile.
“I mean white savages!” she declared spitefully.
His smile grew broader, and then slowly faded and he sat quiet, studying her face. The silence grew painful; she moved uneasily under his direct gaze and a dash of color swept into her cheeks. Then he spoke quietly.
“You been seeing white savages?”
“Yes!” venomously.
“Not around here?” The hateful mockery of that drawl!