She stopped, her temples throbbing giddily, her breaths coming in gasps; stopped to gain mastery of herself before she decided what she would do next.  On the opposite bank of the arroyo was a line of heads, like those of infantry above a parapet, and she comprehended that, in the same way that news of a cock-fight travels, the gallery gods of Little Rivers had received a tip of a sporting event so phenomenal that it changed the sluggards among them into early risers.  They were making themselves comfortable lying flat on their stomachs and exposing as little as possible of their precious bodies to the danger of that tenderfoot firing wild.

It was a great show, of which they would miss no detail; and all had their interest whetted by some possible new complication of the plot when they saw the tall, familiar figure of Jasper Ewold’s daughter standing against the skyline.  She felt the greedy inquiry of their eyes; she guessed their thoughts.

This new element of the situation swept her with a realization of the punishment she must suffer for that chance meeting on Galeria and then with resentful anger, which transformed Jack Wingfield’s indifference to callous bravado.

Must she face that battery of leers from the town ruffians while she implored a stranger, who had been nothing to her yesterday and would be nothing tomorrow, to run away from a combat which was a creation of his own stubbornness?  She was in revolt against herself, against him, and against the whole miserable business.  If she proceeded, public opinion would involve her in a sentimental interest in a stranger.  She must live with the story forever, while to an idle traveller it was only an adventure at a way-station on his journey.

She had but to withdraw in feigned surprise from the sight of a scene which she had come upon unawares and she would be free of any association with it.  For all Little Rivers knew that she was given to random walks and rides.  No one would be surprised that she was abroad at this early hour.  It would be ascribed to the nonsense which afflicted the Ewolds, father and daughter, about sunrises.

Yes, she had been in a nightmare.  With the light of day she was seeing clearly.  Had she not warned him about Leddy?  Had not she done her part?  Should she submit herself to fruitless humiliation?  Go to him in as much distress as if his existence were her care?  If he would not listen to her yesterday, why should she expect him to listen to her now?

She would return to her garden.  Its picture of content and isolation called her away from the stare of the faces on the other bank.  She turned on her heel abruptly, took two or three spasmodic steps and stopped suddenly, confronted with another picture—­one of imagination—­that of Jack Wingfield lying dead.  The recollection of a voice, the voice that had stopped the approach of Leddy’s passion-inflamed face to her own on the pass, sounded in her ears.