"It's only a joke, sir," she said, coolly lifting herself to her feet by
grasping his arm. "I'm Mrs. Dall, the Indian agent's wife. They said you
wouldn't let anybody see you--and I determined I would. That's all!" She
stopped, threw back her tangled curls behind her ears, shook the briers
and thorns from her skirt, and added: "Well, I reckon you aren't afraid
of a woman, are you? So no harm's done. Good-by!"
She drew slightly back as if to retreat, but the elasticity of the
manzanito against which she was leaning threw her forward once more.
He again inhaled the perfume of her hair; he saw even the tiny freckles
that darkened her upper lip and brought out the moist, red curve below.
A sudden recollection of a playmate of his vagabond childhood flashed
across his mind; a wild inspiration of lawlessness, begotten of his past
experience, his solitude, his dictatorial power, and the beauty of the
woman before him, mounted to his brain. He threw his arms passionately
around her, pressed his lips to hers, and with a half-hysterical laugh
drew back and disappeared in the thicket.
Mrs. Dall remained for an instant dazed and stupefied. Then she lifted
her arm mechanically, and with her sleeve wiped her bruised mouth and
the ochre-stain that his paint had left, like blood, upon her cheek. Her
laughing face had become instantly grave, but not from fear; her dark
eyes had clouded, but not entirely with indignation. She suddenly
brought down her hand sharply against her side with a gesture of
discovery.
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