A sizzle of burning skin, a piteous wail from the tortured animal, an acrid pungent odor, and the thing was done. The girl got to her feet, quivering like an aspen.
“Have you a knife?” she asked faintly.
“Yes.”
“Cut the rope.”
The calf staggered to all fours, shook itself together, and went bawling to the dead mother.
The girl drew a deep breath. “They say it does not hurt except while it is being done.”
His bleak eyes met hers stonily. “And of course it will soon get used to doing without its mother. That is a mere detail.”
A shudder went through her.
The whole thing was incomprehensible to him. Why under heaven had she done it? How could one so sensitive have done a wanton cruel thing like this? Her reason he could not fathom. The facts that confronted him were that she had done it, and had meant to carry the crime through. Only detection had changed her purpose.
She turned upon him, plainly sick of the whole business. “Let’s get away from here. Where’s your horse?” 25