Behind her the rifle spat forth its staccato message of death. For a
few seconds the mountains flung whiplike echoes back and forth in a
volley. Then the sibilant voice of the wind alone broke the stillness.
Numbed with the cold, terrified at the elemental ruthlessness of it
all, she threw herself on the bed, denied even the relief of tears.
Dry-eyed and heavy-hearted, she waited her husband's coming, and
dreading it--for the first time she had seen her Bill look on her with
cold, critical anger. For an interminable time she lay listening for
the click of the latch, every nerve strung tight.
He came at last, and the thump of his rifle as he stood it against the
wall had no more than sounded before he was bending over her. He sat
down on the edge of the bed, and putting his arm across her shoulders,
turned her gently so that she faced him.
"Never mind, little person," he whispered. "It's done and over. I'm
sorry I slashed at you the way I did. That's a fool man's way--if he's
hurt and sore he always has to jump on somebody else."
Then by some queer complexity of her woman's nature the tears forced
their way. She did not want to cry--only the weak and mushy-minded
wept.
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