bridle. Never had she been accustomed to consider the sensibilities of others; never had she been in contact with the sensibilities of any save her father, and they were blunted to all but the coarser reactions. Yet
"Zang," she said, a little hesitantly.
"What?" No encouragement in his barked answer.
"I told you back there in the cabin—when you asked me to go to the Spout with you—I told you I would, you remember, on my own terms."
"An' I'd have to wait your own good time to find out what your terms were," came the brusque interruption.
"Yes, Zang, I thought that way was best." Almost a shade of tenderness in the girl's voice now. The man strained his eyes to peer through the gathering dark and read her face; it was denied him by the gloom, lemon tinged by the last streak of fire along the crests of the Broken Horns.
"Please—please don't ask—or expect—too much all at once, Zang, and"—a faint ghost of a sigh in the near dark—"I'm sorry."
"Let everythin' ride as is. That goes with
