“Bah!” cried Ellen, with all the force of her pain and shame and hate.
“By Heaven, you must be different from what I thought!” exclaimed Isbel, huskily.
“Shore if I wasn’t, I’d make myself.... Now, Mister Jean Isbel, get on your horse an’ go!”
Something of composure came to Ellen with these words of dismissal, and she glanced up at him with half-veiled eyes. His changed aspect prepared her for some blow.
“That’s a pretty black horse.”
“Yes,” replied Ellen, blankly.
“Do you like him?”
“I—I love him.”
“All right, I’ll give him to you then. He’ll have less work and kinder treatment than if I used him. I’ve got some pretty hard rides ahead of me.”
“Y’u—y’u give—” whispered Ellen, slowly stiffening. “Yes. He’s mine,” replied Isbel. With that he turned to whistle. Spades threw up his head, snorted, and started forward at a trot. He came faster the closer he got, and if ever Ellen saw the joy of a horse at sight of a beloved master she saw it then. Isbel laid a hand on the animal’s neck and caressed him, then, turning back to Ellen, he went on speaking: “I picked him from a lot of fine horses of my father’s. We got along well. My sister Ann rode him a good deal.... He was stolen from our pasture day before yesterday. I took his trail and tracked him up here. Never lost his trail till I got to your ranch, where I had to circle till I picked it up again.”