Murray examined his horse’s harness and pulled tight a strap. Fothergill, in the saddle, waited and looked about. At length they had pushed across the tangled woods, and in front the high plains rolled south. The sun had not yet parched the grass, and in the foreground red lilies dotted the sweep of green. Farther back were little poplar bluffs and shining ponds, and then the long undulations melted into the blue horizon.
After the barren rocks and dark woods, Fothergill half-consciously owned the charm of the wide, sunny plain, but his mouth was set and his look was stern. His business was to track the man who shot his comrade, and Murray, getting on his horse, gave him a dry smile.
“Ye’re keen to start and we’ll get going. When we make camp at sundown I reckon ye’ll have had enough.”
