She turned, observed him calmly, and then glanced back to the fire. She asked no question.
Her chin rested on her hands, now, so that when she spoke her head nodded a little and gave a significance to what she said.
"The grey doesn't belong to you?"
So she was thinking of horses!
"Well," she repeated.
"No."
"Hoss-lifting," she mused.
"Why shouldn't I take a horse when they had shot down mine?"
She turned to him again, and this time her gaze went over him slowly, curiously, but without speaking she looked back to the fire, as though explanation of what "hoss-lifting" meant were something far beyond the grasp of his mentality. His anger rose again, childishly, sullenly, and he had to arm himself with indifference.
"Who'd you drop, Bard?"