“Ellen, we’ve got to hit the trail an’ hide,” continued Colter, anxiously. “Y’u mustn’t stay heah alone. Suppose them Isbels would trap y’u! ... They’d tear your clothes off an’ rope y’u to a tree. Ellen, shore y’u’re goin’.... Y’u heah me!”
“Yes—I’ll go,” she replied, as if forced.
“Wal—that’s good,” he said, quickly. “An’ rustle tolerable lively. We’ve got to pack.”
The slow jangle of Colter’s spurs and his slow steps moved away out of Ellen’s hearing. Throwing off the blankets, she put her feet to the floor and sat there a moment staring at the blank nothingness of the cabin interior in the obscure gray of dawn. Cold, gray, dreary, obscure—like her life, her future! And she was compelled to do what was hateful to her. As a Jorth she must take to the unfrequented trails and hide like a rabbit in the thickets. But the interest of the moment, a premonition of events to be, quickened her into action.
Ellen unbarred the door to let in the light. Day was breaking with an intense, clear, steely light in the east through which the morning star still shone white. A ruddy flare betokened the advent of the sun. Ellen unbraided her tangled hair and brushed and combed it. A queer, still pang came to her at sight of pine needles tangled in her brown locks. Then she washed her hands and face. Breakfast was a matter of considerable work and she was hungry.
The sun rose and changed the gray world of forest. For the first time in her life Ellen hated the golden brightness, the wonderful blue of sky, the scream of the eagle and the screech of the jay; and the squirrels she had always loved to feed were neglected that morning.
Colter came in. Either Ellen had never before looked attentively at him or else he had changed. Her scrutiny of his lean, hard features accorded him more Texan attributes than formerly. His gray eyes were as light, as clear, as fierce as those of an eagle. And the sand gray of his face, the long, drooping, fair mustache hid the secrets of his mind, but not its strength. The instant Ellen met his gaze she sensed a power in him that she instinctively opposed. Colter had not been so bold nor so rude as Daggs, but he was the same kind of man, perhaps the more dangerous for his secretiveness, his cool, waiting inscrutableness.
“‘Mawnin’, Ellen!” he drawled. “Y’u shore look good for sore eyes.”
“Don’t pay me compliments, Colter,” replied Ellen. “An’ your eyes are not sore.”
“Wal, I’m shore sore from fightin’ an’ ridin’ an’ layin’ out,” he said, bluntly.