“Boss, ain't it funny how a pretty wench—?” began Shady Jones, sarcastically.
“Shut up, you fool!” broke in Anson. “Come on, I'll help rustle them hosses.”
After they had gone Burt took his rifle and strolled off into the forest. Then the girl appeared. Her hair was down, her face pale, with dark shadows. She asked for water to wash her face. Wilson pointed to the brook, and as she walked slowly toward it he took a comb and a clean scarf from his pack and carried them to her.
Upon her return to the camp-fire she looked very different with her hair arranged and the red stains in her cheeks.
“Miss, air you hungry?” asked Wilson.
“Yes, I am,” she replied.
He helped her to portions of bread, venison and gravy, and a cup of coffee. Evidently she relished the meat, but she had to force down the rest.
“Where are they all?” she asked.
“Rustlin' the hosses.”
Probably she divined that he did not want to talk, for the fleeting glance she gave him attested to a thought that his voice or demeanor had changed. Presently she sought a seat under the aspen-tree, out of the sun, and the smoke continually blowing in her face; and there she stayed, a forlorn little figure, for all the resolute lips and defiant eyes.