half taunt, and he saw the delicate
colour creep into her cheeks and make them vivid.

"I hain't afeared of ye," she quickly disavowed. "Ever sence thet other
time when ye sought ter insult me, I've done wore my waist
bloused--a-purpose ter tote a dirk-knife. I've got hit right now," and
her hand went toward her bosom as she took a backward step into the
brittle weed-stalks that grew by the roadside.

But Bas shook his head, and hastened to expound his subtler meaning.

"I didn't mean ye war skeered of no bodily vi'lence, Dorothy. I means
ye don't das't trust yoreself with me because ye're affrighted lest ye
comes ter love me more'n ye does ther man ye married in sich unthoughted
haste. I don't blame ye fer bein' heedful."

"Love ye!" she exclaimed, as the colour deepened in her cheeks and neck,
then went sweeping out again in the white and still passion of outraged
indignation. "I hain't got no feelin' fer ye save only ter despise ye
beyond all measure. A woman kain't love no craven an' liar thet does his
fightin' by deceit."

Bas Rowlett looked off to the east and when he spoke it was with no
reference to the insults that cut most deeply and sorely into mountain
sensibilities.

"A woman don't always know what she loves ner hates--all at onc't.
Betwixt them two things thar hain't no sich great differ noways. I'd
ruther hev ye hate me then not ter give me no thought one way ner
t'other.... Ye're liable ter wake up some day an' diskiver thet ye've
jest been gittin' ther names of yore feelin's mixed up." He paused in
his exposition upon human nature long enough to smile indulgently, then
continued: "So long es ye won't abide ter let me even talk te yer, I
knows ye're afear'd of me in yore heart--an' thet's because ye're
afeared of what yore heart hitself mout come ter feel."

"Thet's a right elevatin' s'armon ye preaches," she made scornful
answer, "but a body doesn't gentle a mad dog jest ter show they hain't
skeered of hit."

"Es fer Parish Thornton," he went on as though his musings were by way
of soliloquy, "ye kain't handily foller him whar he's goin' ter, nohow.
He's done run his course already."

A hurricane gust of dizzy wrath swept the woman and her voice came
explosively: "Thet's a lie, Bas Rowlett! Hit'll be _you_ thet dies with
a rope on yore neck afore ye gits through--not him!"

"Ef I does," declared the man with equanimity, "hit won't be jest yit. I
grants him full an' free right of way ter go a