"I strained his shoulder, trying to make him jump that washout. That was
when I first got sight of you over here. We went to the bottom and it
took me quite a while to find a way out. That's why I was so long
getting here." Ford explained indifferently, with his back to her,
while he rubbed commiseratingly the swelling shoulder.
"Oh." The girl waited. "It seems to me you need help yourself. I don't
see how you expect to help any one else, with your horse in that
condition," she added. And when he still did not speak, she asked: "Do
you know how far it is to the nearest ranch?"
"No. I told you I'm a stranger in this country. I was heading for the
Double Cross, but I don't know just--"
"We're eight miles, straight across, from there; ten, the way we would
have to go to get there. There are other washouts in this country--which
it is unwise to attempt jumping, Mr.--"
"Campbell," Ford supplied shortly.
"I beg your pardon? You mumbled--"
"Campbell!" Ford was tempted to shout it but contented himself with a
tart distinctness. A late, untoward incident had made him somewhat
touchy over his name, and he had not mumbled.
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