“Very well, you’re fired! Now untie this rope, then get off my land!”
But even this was turned against her. “I don’t have to. I’m no longer your servant. I’ll get off your land, yes—after I’ve delivered you at your home.”
If looks could kill, to use that hackneyed but still expressive term, he would have died there and then. But they don’t, and, masking his own disappointment with a hypocritically cheerful whistle, he turned his beast and rode down the cañon, towing her behind.
It was dreadfully humiliating, and, being a girl, she cried some more—this time for sheer anger. But soon her tears dried and she fell into deep musing. Soon a small smile restored its softness to her mouth. Her voice, seductively pleasant, mingled with the tramp of hoofs. “Won’t you please untie me? The rope is hurting my arms.”
He stopped, pulled her horse up alongside, and as he began to fumble with the ropes she turned her head so that he could not see her smile. It was transmuted into a flash of fury when, finding the rope a little loose, he drew it tighter.
“I thought you were a gentleman!” she shot it viciously at his back as he rode on. “Gentlemen don’t tie up ladies!”
“Ladies don’t fire men for obeying orders. You needn’t think I’m enjoying this. Just because you shoved in where you were not wanted, I have to go back.”
She did not like that, either. What girl would? Once more she bit her lip, yet, for all her anger, a touch of respect mingled with her resentment. Concerned principally with his own disappointment, he rode on without looking back and so missed the little persistent wriggles by which she gradually freed one hand. Soon she was able, by leaning forward, to reach and draw her saddle machete. Indeed, she worked with such caution that he got his first warning when, with one slash, she cut the rope between them. By the time he had swung his beast around she was going like the wind back up the cañon.
Her mocking laughter came floating back.