It's steep down
these paths. They sort of zigzag their way, but it's a path any horse
can make without danger. It just needs care. Once in the valley it's
a stretch of sweet-grass without a bluff or a break of any sort.
There's no slough either. It's just grass. One big flat of
sweet-grass."
There was no reply from her companions. They were engrossed with the
object of their straining scrutiny. Presently the woman went on again.
"This is where my work quits," she said. Then she withdrew her gaze
and looked up at the dim outline of the big man nearest her. There was
just a shade of eagerness in her manner now. "That's Lightfoot's camp,
Mr. McFarlane," she assured. "I've done all that's needed. You see,
I'm a woman, and I don't guess you need anything more from me. Shall I
stop right here, or--get back to home?"
Bob Whitstone was watching his wife closely as she addressed herself to
the rancher. He noted her tone, her evident anxiety now, and he
understood. A curious repulsion surged through him.
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