It was about dark, and she was on the verge of looking about for a
suitable camping-place, when the bay halted sharply, tossed up his
head, and whinnied. From the far distance she thought she heard the
beginning of a whinny in reply. She could not be sure, but the
possibility made her pulse quicken. In this region, she knew, no
stranger could be a friend.
So she started the bay at a gallop and put a couple of swift miles
between her and the point at which she had heard the sound; no living
creature, she was sure, could have followed the pace the bay held
during that distance. So, secure in her loneliness, she trotted the
horse around a bend of the rocks and came on the sudden light of
a campfire.
It was too late to wheel and gallop away; so she remained with her
hand fumbling at the butt of the revolver, and her eyes fixed on the
flicker of the fire. Not a voice accosted her. As far as she could
peer among the lithe trunks of the saplings, not a sign of a living
thing was near.
Yet whoever built that fire must be near, for it was obviously newly
laid.
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