“I’m sorry I said I was tired of rabbit. Why! How—When did you get that beef?”
“Last night.”
“While I was asleep?”
“Yes.”
“I woke last night sometime—but I didn’t know.”
Her eyes were widening, darkening with thought, and whenever they did so the steady, watchful, seeing gaze gave place to the wistful light. In the former she saw as the primitive woman without thought; in the latter she looked inward, and her gaze was the reflection of a troubled mind. For long Venters had not seen that dark change, that deepening of blue, which he thought was beautiful and sad. But now he wanted to make her think.
“I’ve done more than pack in that beef,” he said. “For five nights I’ve been working while you slept. I’ve got eight calves corralled near a ravine. Eight calves, all alive and doing fine!”
“You went five nights!”
All that Venters could make of the dilation of her eyes, her slow pallor, and her exclamation, was fear—fear for herself or for him.
“Yes. I didn’t tell you, because I knew you were afraid to be left alone.”