"So it's you," she said unsteadily. "I thought out people had caught you."
Quintana laughed: "Charming child," he said, "it is I who have caught your people. And now, my God! -- I catch you! ... It is ver' funny. Is it not?"
She looked straight into Quintana's black eyes, but the look he returned sent the shamed blood surging into her face.
"By God," he said between his white, even teeth, -- "by God!"
Staring at her he slowly disengaged his pack, let it fall behind him on the pine needles; rested his rifle on it; slipped out his mackinaw and laid that across his rifle -- always keeping his brilliant eyes on her.
His lips tightened, the muscles in his face grew tense; his eyes became blazing insult.
For an instant he stood there, unencumbered, a wiry, graceful shape in his woollen breeches, leggings, and grey shirt open at the throat. Then he took a step toward her. And the girl watched him, fascinated.
One pace, two, a third, a fourth -- the girl's involuntary cry echoed the stumbling crash of the man thrashing, clawing, scrambling in the clenched jaws of the bear-trap amid a whirl of flying pine needles.
He screamed once, tried to rise, turned blindly to seize the jaws that clutched him; and suddenly crouched, loose-jointed, cringing like a trapped wolf -- the true fatalist among our lesser brothers.
Eve picked up her rifle. She was trembling violently. Then, mastering her emotion, she walked over to the pack, placed Quintana's rifle and mackinaw in it, coolly hoisted it to her shoulders and buckled it there.
Over her shoulder she kept an eye on Quintana who crouched where he had fallen, unstirring, his deadly eyes watching her.
She placed the muzzle of her rifle against his stomach, rested it so, holding it with one hand, her finger at the trigger.
At her brief order he turned out both breeches pockets. She herself stooped and drew the Spanish clasp-knife from its sheath at his belt, took a pistol from the holster, another out of his hip pocket. Reaching up and behind her, she dropped these into the pack.
"Maybe," she said slowly, "your ankle is broken. I'll send somebody from Ghost Lake to find you. But whether you've a broken bone or not you'll not go very far, Quintana. ... After I'm gone you'll be able to free yourself. But you can't get away. You'll be followed and caught. ... So if you can walk at all you'd better go in to Ghost Lake an give yourself up. ... It's that or starvation. ... You've got a watch. ... Don't stir or touch that trap for half an hour. ... And that's all."