Shirley happened to be looking through the grimy caboose window at
that moment. On the top log of the load the object of her unhappy
speculations was seated, apparently quite oblivious of the fact that
he was back once more in the haunt of his enemies, although knowledge
that the double-bitted axe he had so unceremoniously borrowed of
Colonel Pennington was driven deep into the log beside him, with the
haft convenient to his hand, probably had much to do with Bryce's air
of detached indifference. He was sitting with his elbows on his
knees, his chin in his cupped hands, and a pipe thrust aggressively
out the corner of his mouth, the while he stared moodily at his feet.
Shirley suspected she knew what he was thinking of; he was less than
six feet from her, and a morbid fascination moved her to remain at
the window and watch the play of emotions over his strong, stern
face. She told herself that should he move, should he show the
slightest disposition to raise his head and bring his eyes on a level
with hers, she would dodge away from the window in time to escape his
scrutiny.
She reckoned without the engine. With a smart bump it struck the
caboose and shunted it briskly up the siding; at the sound of the
impact Bryce raised his troubled glance just in time to see Shirley's
body, yielding to the shock, sway into full view at the window.
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