He could make her turn by speaking, and knowing that this was so, he postponed the pleasure like a miser who will only count his gold once a day.
From the side view he dwelt on the short, delicately carved upper lip and the astonishingly pleasant curve of the cheek.
"Look at me," he said abruptly.
She turned, observed him calmly, and then glanced back to the fire.

She asked no question.
Her chin rested on her hands, now, so that when she spoke her head nodded a little and gave a significance to what she said.
"The grey doesn't belong to you ?" So she was thinking of horses! "Well," she repeated.
"No." "Hoss-lifting," she mused.
"Why shouldn't I take a horse when they had shot down mine ?" She turned to him again, and this time her gaze went over him slowly, curiously, but without speaking she looked back to the fire, as though explanation of what "hoss-lifting" meant were something far beyond the grasp of his mentality.

His anger rose again, childishly, sullenly, and he had to arm himself with indifference.
"Who'd you drop, Bard ?" "The one they call Calamity Ben." "Is he done for ?" "Yes." The turmoil of the scene of his escape came back to him so vividly that he wondered why it had ever been blurred to obscurity.
She said: "In a couple of hours we'd better ride on.".