To be sure, she could never hit a mark with that ponderous weapon, but at least the pistol gave the feeling of a dangerous lone rider, familiar with the wilds.
It was about dark, and she was on the verge of looking about for a suitable camping-place, when the bay halted sharply, tossed up his head, and whinnied.

From the far distance she thought she heard the beginning of a whinny in reply.

She could not be sure, but the possibility made her pulse quicken.

In this region, she knew, no stranger could be a friend.
So she started the bay at a gallop and put a couple of swift miles between her and the point at which she had heard the sound; no living creature, she was sure, could have followed the pace the bay held during that distance.

So, secure in her loneliness, she trotted the horse around a bend of the rocks and came on the sudden light of a campfire.
It was too late to wheel and gallop away; so she remained with her hand fumbling at the butt of the revolver, and her eyes fixed on the flicker of the fire.