"I'll--fight!"
Her voice was clear, direct, defiant. Her hands appeared from behind
her, and her little fists were clenched. With a swift movement she
tossed her hair back from about her face. Her eyes were blue, but dark
as thunder clouds in their gathering fierceness. She was like a child,
and yet a woman. A ferocious little person. Ready to fight. Ready to
spring at him if he approached. Her eyes never left his face.
"I won't go back!" she repeated. "I won't!"
He was noticing other things about her. Her moccasins were in tatters.
Her short skirt was torn. Her shining hair was in tangles. As she swept
it back from her face he saw under her eyes the darkness of exhaustion;
in her cheeks a wanness, which he did not know just then was caused by
hunger, and by her struggle to get away from something. On the back of
one of her clenched hands was a deep, red scratch. The look in his face
must have given the girl some inkling of the truth. She leaned a little
forward, quickly and eagerly, and demanded:
"Didn't you come from the Nest? Didn't they send you--after me?"
She pointed down the narrow valley, her lips parted as she waited for
his answer, her hair rioting over her breast again as she bent toward
him.
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