There was almost too much decision in a woman so
obviously young.
The weapon was drawn toward her. For one brief moment it was laid
across her lap upon the paper-covered book she had been reading. Then
its butt found its way to a resting place against her soft shoulder.
Not for an instant had her gaze been diverted from the moving object.
Now, however, her head inclined forward, and her warm cheek was laid
against the cool butt. The sights of the weapon were brought up into
line. The pressure of her forefinger was increased upon the trigger.
There was a sharp report followed by a swift rush of scampering hoofs
amongst the brittle pine cones and needles which carpeted the twilit
woods. Then, in a flash, all the tense poise gave way to considered
but rapid activity.
The woman sprang to her feet. She was tall and straight as a willow.
Her rough canvas skirt was divided. Her buckskin shirt was fringed and
beaded. She made a picture of active purpose that belied her
femininity. In a moment she was in the saddle of the pony which had
been dozing a few yards away.
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