"You seem to be in a good deal of a hurry," Good Indian observed.
"Not particularly," she replied, still chirpy as to tone and
supercilious as to her manner.
It would be foolish to repeat all that was said during that ride
home, because so much meaning was conveyed in tones and glances
and in staring straight ahead and saying nothing. They were
sparring politely before they were over the brow of the hill
behind the town; they were indulging in veiled sarcasm--which
came rapidly out from behind the veil and grew sharp and
bitter--before they started down the dusty grade; they were not
saying anything at all when they rounded the Point o' Rocks and
held their horses rigidly back from racing home, as was their
habit, and when they dismounted at the stable, they refused to
look at each other upon any pretext whatsoever.
Baumberger, in his shirt-sleeves and smoking his big pipe,
lounged up from the pasture gate where he had been indolently
rubbing the nose of a buckskin two-year-old with an affectionate
disposition, and wheezed out the information that it was warm.
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