At the click of the lever the girl swung around upon him.
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
He put the rifle down hurriedly. "Just seeing what make it is."
"And what make is it?" she flashed.
He was trapped. "I hadn't found out yet," he stammered.
"No, but you found out there was an empty shell in it," she retorted
quickly.
Their eyes fastened. She was gray as ashes, but she did not flinch. By
chance he had stumbled upon the crime of crimes in Cattleland, had caught
a rustler redhanded at work. Looking into the fine face, nostrils
delicately fashioned, eyes clear and deep, the thing was scarce credible
of her. Why, she could not be a day more than twenty, and in every line of
her was the look of pride, of good blood.
"Yes, I happened to throw it out," he apologized.
But she would have no evasion, would not let his doubts sleep. There was
superb courage in the scornful ferocity with which she retorted.
"Happened! And I suppose you happened to notice that the brand on the
cow is a Bar Double G, while that on the calf is different."
"No, I haven't noticed that."
"Plenty of time to see it yet." Then, with a swift blaze of feeling,
"What's the use of pretending? I know what you think."
"Then you know more than I do. My thoughts don't go any farther than this,
that you have saved my life and I'm grateful for it."
"I know better. You think I'm a rustler. But don't say it. Don't you dare
say it."
Brought up in an atmosphere of semi-barbaric traditions, silken-strong,
with instincts unwarped by social pressure, she was what the sun and wind
and freedom of Arizona had made her, a poetic creation far from
commonplace. So he judged her, and in spite of the dastardly thing she had
done he sensed an innate refinement strangely at variance with the
circumstances.
"All right. I won't," he answered, with a faint smile.
"Now you've got to pay for your sandwiches by making yourself useful. I'm
going to finish this job." She said it with an edge of self-scorn. He
guessed her furious with self-contempt.
Under her directions he knelt on the calf so as to hold it steady while
she plied the hot iron. The odor of burnt hair and flesh was already acrid
in his nostrils. Upon the red flank F was written in raw, seared flesh. He
judged that the brand she wanted was not yet complete. Probably the iron
had got too cold to finish the work, and she had been forced to reheat
it.