Her rifle was slung upon one shoulder,
and her paper-covered book was thrust within the fastenings of her
shirt. She was hot in pursuit of the small black-tailed deer which her
shot had wounded.
Effie bent low in the saddle which she rode astride. Her
well-accustomed pony twisted and turned, threading its way almost
miraculously through the labyrinth of bald tree-trunks. These
pot-hunts, which were of such frequent occurrence, were the recreation
which alone made life tolerable to its mistress.
The woman saw only her quarry. For the rest she left the road to her
pony. With slack reins she leaned forward, carrying her featherweight
over the horn of the saddle. The woods meant nothing to her. The maze
of tree-trunks as they sped by conveyed no threat of danger. She was
concerned only with the obviously limping beast which was to provide
venison for the pot for the next two weeks to come.
Her pony gained nothing upon the wounded deer. But it lost no distance
either. The scene changed and changed again.
Pages:
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61