Now the boy was free to give his undivided attention to the dead lion, and he joined the Airedale in his sentry go, and now Ginger was aware of being off her horse, aware that she was—good heavens, what had the doctor said about “not lingering”? He had known, of course, and planned it all, and Aunt Fan had known—and perhaps the very blond girl had known, and the whole camp—the whole gay, jovial, joking camp had known.... She blushed, swiftly and scorchingly, and sprang into her saddle.
“I must go,” she said, curtly. “It’s a good two hours—”
She gave Ted his head, and he sprang forward on the trail. She could not even say good-by.
“Oh—wait!” Dean Wolcott called after her, but she pretended not to hear. She was in a hot fury; she had been tricked and fooled; this was why Aunt Fan had brought her down here; they were all waiting for her now at camp, talking her over, laughing, conjecturing. “Ted!” She flecked the shining flank with her ramal (sacrilege, this!) and they sped fleetly up the trail. She heard him following her; Ted heard, too, and laid back his ears; there would be no passing him on the trail—no catching up with him.
She could not forbear a look behind; she must see him on Snort; it was not enough to hear the thundering hoofs, to imagine him. The instant she turned her head he waved his hand with something—a paper—a card in it.
“Your—permits!” he called. “The doctor’s camp-fire permits.”
Then she must wait, pulling in the mettlesome Ted, furious at herself for forgetting, for betraying her confused bewilderment. The crisping color stayed in her face, but she had a cool hold on her voice. “Thank you—I’m sorry. Seeing the lion, and the fawn—it went out of my mind—”
“Naturally,” said the Ranger, gravely. He handed her the permits, and he did it slowly, filling up his eyes with the sight of her. It was he who wore the corduroy now; Ginger was in creamy linen, smartly cut, with a scarlet band on her linen hat and a soft scarlet tie under the rolling collar of her sport shirt; she was more radiant, more glowing, more breath-takingly lovely, even, than he had remembered, and he had remembered a great deal.
Then, just to make entirely clear the fact that she was wholly at her ease, that there were, for her, at least, no stinging memories, the girl said pleasantly—“Snort is in fine condition, isn’t he?”
And the man, quite as coolly, made answer, “Yes; he’s a great horse—I’ve enjoyed him.” Then, as if to paraphrase ’Rome Ojeda’s drawling words on that gray and baleful morning of the cattle drive, he added, slowly, “But I’m thinking of changing his name. You see ... he doesn’t ... any more!”