Fat Mary, observing the direction of his gaze, giggled afresh and gave information in a whisper.
Fat Mary nodded corroboratively. The trooper swore softly in mere amazement.
"You're sure that's her?" he demanded. "Well, I 'm--"
He stared at Margaret's receding back with a frown of perplexity, then drew the reins over his horse's head and prepared to mount.
"You go now?" asked Fat Mary, disappointed at the effect of her news.
"You bet," was the answer, as he swung up into the saddle and moved his horse on.
Margaret turned as the sound of hoofs padding on the dust approached from behind and was met by a salute and bold avaricious eyes above the drooping beak. He reined up beside her, looking down from the height of his saddle at her.
"Miss Harding, isn't it?" he said. "May I ask where you 're goin'?"
There was jocular invitation in his manner of saying it, the gallantry of a man who despises women.
"I 'm going to the farm, there," Margaret answered. The unexpected encounter had made her nervous, and she found herself ill at ease under his regard. "Why?"
"Because I 'll ask you for the pleasure of accompanyin' you so far, if you don't mind," he returned. "I want a look at the happy man you 're goin' to see. Hope you don't object?"
"I can't stop you," replied Margaret. "You will do as you please, of course."
She turned and walked on, careful not to hurry her steps. The trooper rode at her side, and though she did not look up, she felt his eyes resting on her profile as they went.
"Bit slow, livin' out here, Miss Harding," he remarked, after they had gone for a minute or so in silence. "Not what you 've been use to, I imagine. Found yourself rather short of men, didn't you?"
"No," replied Margaret thoughtfully; "no."
"Oh, come now." The mounted man laughed thinly, failing utterly to get his tolerant and good-natured effect. "If you 'd had a supply of decent chaps to do the right thing by a girl as pretty as you--admire you, an' flirt, and all that, I mean--you wouldn't have fallen back on this nigger we 're lookin' for, would you, now?"
This was what it meant, then, to have one's name linked with that of a Kafir. She was anybody's game; not the lowest need look upon her as inaccessible. She had to put a restraint upon herself to keep from quickening her pace, from breaking into a run and fleeing desperately from the man whose gaze never left her. Its persistence, though she was aware of it without seeing it, was an oppression; she imagined she could detect the taint of his breath blowing hot upon her as she walked.