She seemed to be
thinking hard and fast, and she hesitated even while she spoke. Ford
wondered at the latent antagonism in her manner.
"I was crying because my foot hurts so and because I don't see how I'm
going to get back to the ranch. I suppose they'll hunt me up if I stay
away long enough--but it's getting toward night, and--I'm scared to
death of coyotes, if you must know!"
Ford laughed--at her defiance, in the face of her absolute helplessness,
more than at what she said. "And you tell me you don't need any help?"
he bantered.
"I might borrow your horse," she suggested coldly, as if she grudged
yielding even that much to circumstance. "Or you might catch mine for
me, I suppose."
"Sure. But you needn't hate me because you're in trouble," he hinted
irrelevantly. "I'm not to blame, you know."
"I--I hate to ask help from--a stranger," she said, watching him from
under her lashes. "And I can't help showing what I feel. I hate to feel
under an obligation--"
"If that's all, forget it," he assured her calmly. "It's a law of the
open--to help a fellow out in a pinch. When I headed for here, I thought
it was a man had been set afoot.
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