CHAPTER XXII
A REAL WOLF
When the loiterer came over the second ridge into view of the booming chasm in the top of the plateau, he saw the others down near the brink. The baby had been laid on a soft bed of pine needles, and Blake was leading the ladies down to look over into the abyss, one on each arm.
Ashton’s chagrin flared into jealous hate. He felt certain that the girl was quite capable of strolling along the extreme edge of the precipice without a trace of giddiness. Yet now she was clinging to Blake even more closely than was Genevieve. There was more than apprehension in the clasp of her little brown hand on the engineer’s shoulder. Her cheek brushed his sleeve.
The anger of the onlooker was so intense that he did not see Gowan riding towards him from the left. The puncher dismounted and came forward, his cold gaze fixed on Ashton’s face.
“So you’re beginning to savvy it, too,” he remarked.
Ashton confronted him, vainly attempting to mask 255 his telltale look and color with a show of hauteur. “I never discuss personal matters with acquaintances of your stamp,” he said.
“That’s too bad,” coolly deplored Gowan. “Maybe you’ve heard the saying about cutting off your nose to spite your face.”