"We'll have fresh beef for a few
days, then we'll cut the rest into strips and dry it."
"Where did you get that?" asked Bess, slowly.
"I stole that from Oldring."
"You went back to the canyon--you risked--" While she hesitated
the tinge of bloom faded out of her cheeks.
"It wasn't any risk, but it was hard work."
"I'm sorry I said I was tired of rabbit. Why! How--When did you
get that beef?"
"Last night."
"While I was asleep?"
"Yes."
"I woke last night sometime--but I didn't know."
Her eyes were widening, darkening with thought, and whenever they
did so the steady, watchful, seeing gaze gave place to the
wistful light. In the former she saw as the primitive woman
without thought; in the latter she looked inward, and her gaze
was the reflection of a troubled mind. For long Venters had not
seen that dark change, that deepening of blue, which he thought
was beautiful and sad. But now he wanted to make her think.
"I've done more than pack in that beef," he said. "For five
nights I've been working while you slept. I've got eight calves
corralled near a ravine. Eight calves, all alive and doing fine!"
"You went five nights!"
All that Venters could make of the dilation of her eyes, her slow
pallor, and her exclamation, was fear--fear for herself or for
him.
"Yes. I didn't tell you, because I knew you were afraid to be
left alone.
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