She placed the muzzle of her rifle against his stomach, rested it so, holding it with one hand, her finger at the trigger.
At her brief order he turned out both breeches pockets. She herself stooped and drew the Spanish clasp-knife from its sheath at his belt, took a pistol from the holster, another out of his hip pocket. Reaching up and behind her, she dropped these into the pack.
"Maybe," she said slowly, "your ankle is broken. I'll send somebody from Ghost Lake to find you. But whether you've a broken bone or not you'll not go very far, Quintana. … After I'm gone you'll be able to free yourself. But you can't get away. You'll be followed and caught. … So if you can walk at all you'd better go in to Ghost Lake an give yourself up. … It's that or starvation. … You've got a watch. … Don't stir or touch that trap for half an hour. … And that's all."
As she moved away toward the Drowned Valley trail she looked back at him. His face was bloodless but his black eyes blazed.
"If ever you come into this forest again," she said, "my father will surely kill you."
To her horror Quintana slowly grinned at her. Then, still grinning, he placed the forefinger of his left hand between his teeth and bit it.
Whatever he meant by the gesture it seemed unclean, horrible; and the girl hurried on, seized with an overwhelming loathing through which a sort of terror pulsated like evil premonition in a heavy and tortured heart.
Straight into the fire of dawn she sped. A pale primrose light glimmered through the woods; trees, bushes, undergrowth turned a dusky purple. Already the few small clouds overhead were edged with fiery rose.
Then, of a sudden, a shaft of flame played over the forest. The sun had risen.
Hastening, she searched the soft path for any imprint of her father's foot And even in the vain search she hoped to find him at home — hurried on burdened with two rifles and a pack, still all nervous and aquiver from her encounter with Quintana.