out. He was on his way; where it might lead he did not know.
Bill sighed again, turning a quick glance over his shoulder to see if anybody had come out of the house. All was quiet there; even the horses had lapsed into their sunny somnolence. From the hilltop where Shad Brassfield had told of the fittified man's revival, Bill took one last look at the house and said good-by. It was a shame that such a nice girl as Zora didn't have a father worthy of her.
From there Dunham swung on a little more briskly, thinking of the explanation he'd have to give MacKinnon, and of selling his horse and getting his ticket to Santa Fé, Zora Moore persisting in the background of his thoughts like prism spots before the eyes after one has looked too openly at the sun. At a turn of the trail he met her, the very substance of the shadow that could not be excluded from his mind.
Zora pulled up with a startled look; Bill hauled in so suddenly he skidded his horse through the dust, raising considerable commotion, for he had been pounding along at a pretty lively clip. Zora looked at him coldly. Bill's heart swung low at sight of her pale face and unfriendly eyes. The news of his exploit with the Texas herd had beaten him to Pawnee Bend.
"I see they let you live!" Zora said contemptuously.
"They didn't exac'ly kill me," Bill admitted, but with weak embarrassment, as if he apologised for being undeservedly alive.
"You bluffed it through, but you wouldn't 'a' done it if I'd been there!"
