“Of course,” he hastened to agree, “if you prefer.”
“I’d prefer to lope uphill and down, but––” she nodded towards his pony’s heaving flanks––“no use riding a willing hawss to death.”
“No danger of that with this old nag. He’s tough as a mule,” Ashton assured her, though he followed her example by pulling his mount in to a walk.
“A mule knows enough to balk when he’s got enough,” she informed him.
He did not reply. With the lessening of his excitement habit sent his hand to his open packet of cigarettes. He had not smoked since before shooting the calf. As they came down into the shallow valley between the foot of the mesa and a parallel line of low rocky hills he could wait no longer. His lighter was already half raised to the gilt-tipped cigarette when it was checked by etiquette. He bowed to the girl as a matter of form. 35
“Ah, pardon me––if you have no objections,” he said.
“I have,” was her unexpected reply.
“Er––what?” he asked, his finger on the spring of the lighter.
“You inquired if I have any objections,” she answered. “I told you the truth. I dislike cigarettes most intensely.”
“But––but––” he stammered, completely taken aback, “don’t your cowboys all smoke?”