He drew the saddle up on the bank beside her, and began to work at the girth. She watched him idly for a while, then suddenly leaned forward and took the girth from his hands.
"This girth was cut, not worn," she said, in an astonished voice.
Fult laughed, "Are you just finding hit out?" he said.
"What do you mean?" she demanded.
"You seed me get off and fix hit back there?"
"Yes," said Isabel, puzzled.
"Well, I cut hit then," he said, "nigh in two, not quite."
"You cut it—why?"
With anger gathering in his eyes, he dropped knife and string and slowly faced her. "Because," he said, "I've stood being treated this way as long as I aim to. For four days you hain't hardly looked at me or spoke to me; and when I try to talk to you, or sing to you, you all the time drag somebody else in,—Lethie or somebody,—so I don't never get a chance to be with you like I want to. And I'm tired of hit. I aim to talk to you, whether or no." His eyes blazed, his chest heaved.
"I don't think I just understand you," Isabel replied.