Stonor smiled a grim inward smile. It was too simple to ask him to believe that she had walked into the bush and brought down a moose within five minutes with one shot. He knew very well that if there was a feast in prospect her face would be wreathed in smiles. He was careful to betray nothing in his own face.
Imbrie was a better actor. “Good work!” he cried. “Now we’ll have something fit to eat.”
She said: “I want help to bring in the meat.”
“Stonor, go help her,” said Imbrie carelessly.
The trooper got up with an indifferent air.
“Martin, don’t go!” Clare said involuntarily.
“I’m not afraid of her,” Stonor said.
The woman forced him to walk in advance of her across the grass. The thought of her behind him with the gun ready made Stonor’s skin prickle uncomfortably, but he reflected that she would certainly not shoot until they were hidden in the bush.
When they reached the edge of the bush he stopped and looked at her. “Which way?” he asked, with an innocent air.
“You can follow the tracks, can’t you?” said she.