ect that when we've been in such a
place we like to come back and look at it just to see how near we came to
going over the divide. And there's another reason why I expected to see
you on the river trail again. You forgot to thank me for pulling you
out."

He deserved thanks for that, she knew. But there were in his voice and
eyes the same subtle mockery which had marked his manner that other time,
and as before she experienced a feeling of deep resentment. Why could he
not have shown some evidence of remorse for his crime against her? She
believed that had he done so now she might have found it in her heart to
go a little distance toward forgiving him. But there was only mockery in
his voice and words and her resentment against him grew. Mingling with it,
moreover, was the bitterness which had settled over her within the last
few days. It found expression in her voice when she answered him:

"This country is full of--of savages!"

"Indians, you mean, I reckon? Well, no, there are none around
here--excepting over near Fort Union, on the reservation." He drawled
hatefully and regarded her with a mild smile.

"I mean white savages!" she declared spitefully.

His smile grew broader, and then slowly faded and he sat quiet, studying
her face. The silence grew painful; she moved uneasily under his direct
gaze and a dash of color swept into her cheeks. Then he spoke quietly.

"You been seeing white savages?"

"Yes!" venomously.

"Not around here?" The hateful mockery of that drawl!

"I am talking to one," she said, her eyes blazing with impotent anger.

"I thought you was meaning me," he said, without resentment. "I reckon
I've got it coming to me. But at the same time that isn't exactly the way
to talk to your----" He hesitated and smiled oddly, apparently aware that
he had made a mistake in referring to his crime against her. He hastened
to repair it. "Your rescuer," he corrected.

However, she saw through the artifice, and the bitterness in her voice
grew more pronounced. "It is needless for you to remind me of our
relationship," she said; "I am not likely to forget."

"Have you told your father yet?"

In his voice was the quiet scorn and the peculiar, repressed venom which
she had detected when he had referred to her father during that other
occasion at the crossing. It mystified her, and yet within the past few
days she had felt this scorn herself and knew that it was not remarkable.
Undoubtedly he, having