He was sensible enough of the folly of it all, but he did not see what else he could do.  She had chosen to punish him through herself in a way that was impossible.  It was a childish thing to do, born of some touch of hysteria her experience had induced, and he could only treat her as a child till she was safely back in civilization.

Their wills met in their eyes, and the man’s, masculine and dominant, won the battle.  The long fringe of hers fell to the soft cheeks.

“It won’t be at all necessary,” she promised.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“That’s the way to talk.”

“If you care to know,” she boiled over, “I think you the most hateful man I ever met.”

“That’s all right,” he grinned ruefully.  “You’re the most contrairy woman I ever bumped into, so I reckon honors are easy.”

He strode along beside the horse, mile after mile, in a silence which neither of them cared to break.  The sap of youth flowed free in him, was in his elastic tread, in the set of his broad shoulders, in the carriage of his small, well-shaped head.  He was as lean-loined and lithe as a panther, and his stride ate up the miles as easily.

They nooned at a spring in the dry wash of Bronco Creek.  After he had unsaddled and picketed he condescended to explain to her.

“We’ll stay here three hours or mebbe four through the heat of the day.”

“Is it far now?” she asked wearily.

“Not more than seven miles I should judge.  Are you about all in?”

“Oh, no!  I’m all right, thank you,” she said, with forced sprightliness.

His shrewd, hard gaze went over her and knew better.

“You lie down under those live-oaks and I’ll get some grub ready.”

“I’ll cook lunch while you lie down.  You must be tired walking so far through the sun,” said Miss Kinney.

“Have I got to pick you up again and carry you there?”

“No, you haven’t.  You keep your hands off me,” she flashed.

But nevertheless she betook herself to the shade of the live-oaks and lay down.  When he went to call her for lunch he found her fast asleep with her head pillowed on her arm.  She looked so haggard that he had not the heart to rouse her.

“Let her sleep.  It will be the making of her.  She’s fair done.  But ain’t she plucky?  And that spirited!  Ready to fight so long as she can drag a foot.  And her so sorter slim and delicate.  Funny how she hangs onto her grudge against me.  Sho!  I hadn’t ought to have kissed her, but I’ll never tell her so.”

He went back to his coffee and bacon, dined, and lay down for a siesta beneath a cottonwood some distance removed from the live-oaks where Miss Kinney reposed.  For two or three hours he slept soundly, having been in the saddle all night.  It was mid-afternoon when he awoke, and the sun was sliding down the blue vault toward the sawtoothed range to the west.  He found the girl still lost to the world in deep slumber.