She went a few rods, found herself in a thick tangle of brush through which she could not force her way, started to back out, and caught her hair on a scraggly scrub which seemed to have as many prongs as there are briers on a rosebush.

She was struggling there with her hands fumbling unavailingly at the back of her bowed head, when she was pounced upon by someone or something through the sage.

She screamed.
"The--deuce!" Good Indian brought out the milder expletive with the flat intonation which the unexpected presence of a lady frequently gives to a man's speech.

"Lucky I didn't take a shot at you through the bushes.
I did, almost, when I saw somebody moving here.

Is this your favorite place for a morning ramble ?" He had one hand still upon her arm, and he was laughing openly at her plight.