Then, sitting quietly in the saddle, she
forgot McGurk and remembered Pierre. He was happy by this time with
the girl of the yellow hair; there was nothing remaining to her from
him except the ominous cross which touched cold against her breast.
That he had abandoned as he had abandoned her.
What, then, was left for her? The horse of an outlaw for her to ride;
the heart of an outlaw in her breast.
She touched the white horse with the spurs and went at a reckless
gallop, weaving back and forth among the boulders down the forge. For
she was riding away from the past.
The dawn came as she trotted out into a widening valley of the Old
Crow. To maintain even that pace she had to use the spurs continually,
for the white horse was deadly weary, and his head fell more and more.
She decided to make a brief halt, at last, and in order to make a fire
that would take the chill of the cold morning from her, she swung up
to the edge of the woods. There, before she could dismount, she saw a
man turn the shoulder of the slope.
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