Suddenly her mount, a thick-set, soft-going pony shied, almost unseating her. A gun had banged close by. Immediately there was a second report. Miss Van Arsdale dismounted, replacing a short-barreled shot-gun in its saddle-holster, stepped from the trail, and presently returned carrying a brace of plump, slate-gray birds.
“Wild dove,” she said, stroking them. “You’ll find them a welcome addition to a meager bill of fare.”
“I should be quite content with whatever you usually have.”
“Doubted,” replied the other. “I live rather a frugal life. It saves trouble.”
“And I’m afraid I’m going to make you trouble. But you brought it upon yourself.”
“By interfering. Exactly. How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“Good Heavens! You have the aplomb of fifty.”
“Experience,” smiled the girl, flattered.
“And the recklessness of fifteen.”