"It was a mountain girl that taught me to ride,—away back in the Alleghanies—long before I ever saw this country."
"Your mountain girl's pupils don't all ride like that, I'll gamble."
"I wasn't very bright." Kate spurred ahead. The dun pony kept after her.
"Compliments don't set very well on you, do they?" was the shot from her left a moment later.
She turned a full face on her companion: "I hate them," she declared with energy.
In luring this man away from his errand, she had yielded to a really wild impulse and now the spirit of recklessness that ruled her mood seemed to revenge itself by counseling added dangers. She invited riding-hazards, that her victim disdained to comment on, until they must have appeared silly to him. A long way from home they were crossing a high bench above the Falling Wall river, a bench cut by frequent lateral washes—some wide and all very deep. These breaks they jumped one after another without taking serious trouble to head them, though Kate's companion, riding on the river side, gave her every chance to do so.
"I suppose," he suggested at length, "you're pushing into rough country because you like it."
She looked at him: "Yes," she said, icily, "I do like it. But," she added, "if it's too rough for you, we'll go back." In that much of a challenge she felt safe.
"I'm riding with you," he returned, a little dryly. "I like anything you like."
And at this juncture Kate's luck deserted her; it always seemed to when she most needed it. Ahead, there lay a stretch of smooth bench and she took a run to cross it. But below a slight rise on the near side an ugly break suddenly faced her. Decision was forced. Recklessness said: "Take it." She spurred. The gray hesitated—almost as if to give his wanton mistress a chance to reconsider; but he got the quirt for his pains.