“Perhaps.” His smile was mysterious and mocking, and she saw in his eyes the reckless gleam which she had noted that night while in the cabin with him. She shuddered and walked to the pony—his pony.
“If you have quite finished I believe I will be going,” she said, holding her chin high and averting her face. “I will have one of the men bring your horse to you.”
“I believe I have quite finished,” he returned, mimicking her cold, precise manner of speech.
She disdainfully refused his proffer of assistance and mounted the pony. He stood watching her with a smile, which she saw by glancing covertly at him while pretending to arrange the stirrup strap. When she started to ride away without even glancing at him, she heard his voice, with its absurd, hateful drawl:
“And she didn’t even thank me,” he said with mock bitterness and disappointment.
She turned and made a grimace at him. He bowed and smiled.
“You are entirely welcome,” she said.
He was standing on the edge of the quicksand, watching her, when she reached the long rise upon which she had sat on her pony on a day some weeks before, and when she turned he waved a hand to her. A little later she vanished over the rise, and she had not ridden very far when she heard the dull report of his pistol. She shivered, and rode on.