waist, laving her wrists in the current, ridding herself of the desert dust as best she could, drying her skin with her handkerchief.
She rose and walked back to him. To attempt to run was useless. She was stiff from the saddle, weak from need of nourishment. Hollister was yawning prodigiously, fighting sleep. Her eyes wandered to the butt of his gun. If she could grab it—a shot at him—or herself?
He snickered.
"You're like a third-rate boxer, pretty. You telegraph what you aim to do. I ain't asleep yet. Hold out your hands. We'll let grub go till later. I ain't hungry myself. Unless you want a bite?"
She resigned herself to be rebound, standing with closed eyes, not to see his face. He tied her wrists, stooped and bound her ankles. Then he picked up her light weight in his arms, while she shuddered and turned away her face, fearing a caress. But he was too dull with lack of sleep to think of anything else. Stumbling a little, he bore her to the side hill, up a slope into a narrow vaulted place that had a floor of sand. He lifted her and set her up in a niche. Then he gagged her with her own handkerchief, tying his bandanna on top of it. The contact with the fabric, warm and moist from his neck, sickened her.
"I'll be back after a while, pretty," he mocked and she heard his footsteps gritting on the silt as he went out. It was dusky and cool in the cavern, the air was sweet and dry. And her bed was water-smoothed. He had bound her hands in front of
