Without a word to the girl, or a glance toward her, he started up the hill, hoping to get his bearings and a sight of the horse from the top.

He could not remember when he had been so angry with a woman.

"If she was a man," he gritted as he climbed, "I'd give her a thrashing or leave her out there, just as she deserves.

That's the worst of dealing with a woman--she can always hand it to you, and you've got to give her a grin and thank-you, because she ain't a man." He glanced back, then, and saw her sitting with her head dropped forward upon her hands.

There was something infinitely pitiful and lonely in her attitude, and he knitted his brows over the contrast between it and her manner when he left her.