Marching Sands
She wanted to be angrier than she was. But the wall perch was a bad strategic position for a display of temper, which she considered he had earned.
"You know that it would weaken our chances of success to divide our caravan!" she accused, feeling for foothold on the stones beneath.
Gray was unable to account for the swift change in mood. What had he said to offend her? He had meant it only for her good.
"No, Miss Hastings," he flushed. "I simply wanted to warn you of real danger."
The girl slid down the rocks to the earth. She stamped a neatly shod foot disdainfully. Gray was oblivious of the fact that the maneuver had been planned for this purpose. She was plainly very angry. He wondered why, miserably.
"I thought you were a sportsman, Captain Gray—even if you were not a big game hunter as you pretended. I find I am mistaken. Good afternoon."
"Good Lord!" Gray watched her slight figure return to the tent and set his teeth. "Good Lord!" He smiled ruefully. "Horse thief—schemer—I wonder if there's anything else that she thinks I am. Guess there's nothing else bad enough."
He climbed down from his rocks and left the encampment, avoiding Ram Singh who was ushering in a line of coolies as he did so. The Sikh strode by with a scowl.
152
