“He’s probably been detained at the mine,” he said cheeringly. “They’ve that gang of Easterners goin’ down this afternoon.”
The girl made no answer, but drew back a step or two from the carriage.
“If you’ll get in I’ll drive you up and down for a spell,” he said. “It’s cold work standin’ round on a night like this.”
“No,” she answered in a muffled voice; “no.”
“Put your bag in, anyway,” he suggested, stretching a hand for it.
She drew back another step and moved the hand holding the bag behind her.
“Just as you like,” he returned, the familiarity of his manner suddenly chilled by annoyance. “It’s for you to say.”
She retreated still farther until stopped by a growth of sage at the edge of the road. The man, seeing he could discover nothing from her, gathered up his reins.
“Well,” he said, “I can’t run no risks with the finest team in the state of Nevada. I’ll have to walk ’em up and down till Mr. Barclay gets here. He said he’d be before time, and he’s nearly fifteen minutes late now.”
He chirped to the horses, who immediately started on a gentle trot. The dust muffled their hoof-beats, and noiselessly, with something of stealth and mystery in the soft swiftness of their withdrawal, they receded into the blackness of the night.