Dave was bound for the Settlement, to arrange some business of bounties and pelt sales. In spite of Kirstie’s hospitable arguments, he insisted on setting out as soon as breakfast was over. As he picked up his rifle from the corner beside his bunk, Miranda, as a sign of peace between them, handed him his pouch of bullets. But not so his big powder-flask, on its gay green cord. This she took to the door, and coolly emptied its contents into a clump of burdocks. Then, with an enigmatic smile, she handed back the flask to its owner.
The young hunter was annoyed. Powder was, in his eyes, a sacred thing, and such a wanton waste of it seemed to him little less than criminal.
“That was all the powder I had ’twixt here an’ the Settlement,” he said, in a tone of rebuke.
“So much the better,” said Miranda.
“But I don’t see no sense in wastin’ it that way,” he persisted.
“No knowing what may happen between here and the Settlement,” rejoined the girl, meaningly.
Dave flushed with anger. “Didn’t I pass ye my word I’d not harm a hair of one of your beasts?” he demanded.
“Then what do you want with the powder this side of the Settlement?” she inquired, with tantalizing pertinence.
The young hunter, though steady and clear in his thought, was by no means apt in repartee, and Miranda had him at a cruel disadvantage. Confused by her last question, he blundered badly in his reply. “But—what if a painter should jump onto me, like he was goin’ to yesterday?” he protested.
“I thought you promised you wouldn’t harm a hair of one of them,” suggested Miranda, thoughtful yet triumphant.