While he unsheathed his hunting knife, he gloated
over the feast he would have, that night. And just when he had laid his
rifle against a rock and knelt to bleed her, the deer leaped from under
his hand and bounded away over the hill. He had not said a word on that
occasion, either.
This night, although the case was altogether different and the
disappearance of the girl was in no sense a disaster--rather a relief,
if anything--he felt that same wordless rage, the same sense of utter
chagrin. She had made a fool of him. After awhile he felt his jaws
aching with the vicelike pressure of his teeth together.
They topped the ridge, Rambler hobbling stiffly. Ford had in mind a
sheltering rim of sandstone at the nearest point of the coulee he had
crossed in searching for the girl's horse, and made for it. He had
noticed a spring there, and while the water might not be good, the
shelter would be welcome, at any rate.
He had the saddle off Rambler, the shoulder bathed with cold water from
the spring, and was warming his wet hands over a little fire when the
first gleam of humor struck through his anger and lighted for a moment
the situation.
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