He laid aside his dignity and called, and while his voice went booming full-lunged through the whispering silence of that empty land, he twisted the third torch, and stamped the embers of the second into the earth that it might not fire the prairie.
There was no dodging the fact; the girl was gone.

When Ford was perfectly sure of it, he stamped the third torch to death with vicious heels, went back to the horse, and urged him to limp up the hill.

He did not say anything then or think anything much; at least, he did not think coherently.

He was so full of a wordless rage against the girl, that he did not at first feel the need of expression.

She had made a fool of him.
He remembered once shooting a big, beautiful, blacktail doe.