"
"There's something moving, off there." Beatrice pointed with her whip.
"That's a coyote," Keith told her; and then, seeing the look on her
face: "They won't hurt any one. They're the rankest cowards on the
range."
"But the snakes "
"Oh, well, he might wander around for a week, and not run across one. We
won't borrow trouble, anyway."
"No," she agreed languidly. The sun was hot, and she had not had
anything to eat since early breakfast, and the river mocked her parched
throat with its cool glimmer below. She looked down at it wistfully, and
Keith, watchful of every passing change in her face, led her back to
where a cold, little spring crept from beneath a rock; there, lifting
her down, he taught her how to drink from her hand.
For himself, he threw himself down, pushed back his hat, and drank long
and leisurely. A brown lock of hair, clinging softly together with
moisture, fell from his forehead and trailed in the clear water, and
Beatrice felt oddly tempted to push it back where it belonged. Standing
quietly watching his picturesque figure, she forgot, for the moment,
that a little boy was lost among these peaceful, sunbathed hills; she
remembered only the man at her feet, drinking long, satisfying drafts,
while the lock of hair floated in the spring.
"Now we'll go on." He stood up and pushed back the wet lock, which
trickled a tiny stream down his cheek, and settled his gray hat in
place.
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