THE FORK OF THE ROAD
her. He would conquer himself—of course, he must; and he had proved by his life thus far that he was strong enough to do anything he had to.
Suddenly Hugh felt a keen desire to know what she was thinking, that she was so long silent, and he asked her. He was not sure that she answered his question when she said prosaically:
"You had better go on down to camp and feed your horse—it's over the ridge there; make a fire and put on the tea kettle. I'll be down in half an hour or three quarters."
Disston lingered to watch her as she pulled the bedroll from her horse; and, clearing a space with her foot, freeing it of sticks and pebbles, spread out the canvas, pulling the "tarp" over a pillow beneath which he noticed a box of cartridges and a six-shooter.
"For close work," she said, with a short laugh, observing his interest.
He did not join her; instead his brows contracted.
"I can't bear to think of you going through such hardships."
"This isn't hardship—I'm used to it—I like it. I like to get awake in the night and look at the stars and to feel the wind in my face. When it rains, I pull the tarp over my head, and I love to listen to the patter on it. The sheep 'bed' all around me, and some of them lie on the corners, so it's not lonely." She said it with a touch of defiance, as though she resented his pity and wished him to believe there was no room for it.
"You see," she added, "I'm a typical sheepherder, even to mumbling to myself occasionally."
The sheep in the meantime had grazed to the top of the ridge and had spread out over the flat backbone for a few final mouthfuls before pawing their little hollows.
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