Perhaps, after all, it was that.

Murrell thrust his hand into his pocket.

"I always give something to the boy who holds my horse," he said, and tossed a coin in Carrington's direction.

"There--take that for your pains!" he added.

He pulled his horse about and rode back toward the cross-roads at an easy canter.
Carrington, with an angry flush on his sunburnt cheeks, stood staring down at the coin that glinted in the dusty road, but he was seeing the face of the girl, indignant, beautiful--then he glanced after Murrell.
"I reckon I ought to have twisted his neck," he said with a deep breath..