actions.

"I am," replied he, without looking up. He whirled the cylinder into
place, pushed the bundle back under the bed and rose, polishing the
barrel of the gun with a silk handkerchief.

Miss Whitmore hoped he wasn't going to murder anyone; he looked keyed
up to almost any desperate deed.

"Who--what are you going to shoot?" Really, the question asked itself.

Chip raised his eyes for a fleeting glance which took in the pencil
sketch in her hand. Miss Whitmore observed that his eyes were much
darker than hazel; they were almost black. And there was, strangely
enough, not a particle of curve to his lips; they were thin, and
straight, and stern.

"Silver. He broke his leg."

"Oh!" There was real horror in her tone. Miss Whitmore knew all about
Silver from garrulous Patsy. Chip had rescued a pretty, brown colt from
starving on the range, had bought him of the owner, petted and cared for
him until he was now one of the best saddle horses on the ranch. He was
a dark chestnut, with beautiful white, crinkly mane and tail and white
feet. Miss Whitmore had seen Chip riding him down the coulee trail only
yesterday, and now--Her heart ached with the pity of it.

"How did it happen?"

"I don't know. He was in the little pasture. Got kicked, maybe."