Her eyes glowed with
contempt as they looked into his--with a proud scorn that brought a
crimson flush into Antrim's cheeks. It had been that spirit that had
always enraged Antrim--that had always made him realize his inferiority
to her husband, and to the steady-eyed son who had shamed him publicly
at Willets. It was a thing that physical violence could not conquer; it
revealed a quiet courage that had always disconcerted him.
"Hell!" he sneered; "you can't come any of that high an' mighty stuff on
me!"
He twisted her until she faced the door, and then shoved her before him
across the porch and down upon the level on the ranchhouse yard, toward
the stable and the corral.
She did not resist, knowing that physical resistance would be futile.
He shoved her into the stable, and she stood there, unresisting while he
saddled a horse. She could not see him, but she could hear him as he
moved about; and presently he spoke shortly to her from a point close
by:
"Here's a cayuse--saddled an' bridled. You want to get on him here, or
outside?"
"Outside," she said, coldly.
In front of the stable door she mounted, Antrim helping her despite her
scornful protest.
"Listen," he said, as he stood for an instant at the horse's head, dimly
outlined.
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