He put the rifle down hurriedly. “Just seeing what make it is.”
“And what make is it?” she flashed.
He was trapped. “I hadn’t found out yet,” he stammered.
“No, but you found out there was an empty shell in it,” she retorted quickly.
Their eyes fastened. She was gray as ashes, but she did not flinch. By chance he had stumbled upon the crime of crimes in Cattleland, had caught a rustler redhanded at work. Looking into the fine face, nostrils delicately fashioned, eyes clear and deep, the thing was scarce credible of her. Why, she could not be a day more than twenty, and in every line of her was the look of pride, of good blood.
“Yes, I happened to throw it out,” he apologized.
But she would have no evasion, would not let his doubts sleep. There was superb courage in the scornful ferocity with which she retorted.
“Happened! And I suppose you happened to notice that the brand on the cow is a Bar Double G, while that on the calf is different.”
“No, I haven’t noticed that.”
“Plenty of time to see it yet.” Then, with a swift blaze of feeling, “What’s the use of pretending? I know what you think.”