THE GIRL AND THE MAN
As he went down, uninjured, but realizing now that this was to be a
battle to the death, Hamlin flung open his coat, and gripped his
revolver. Lying there on his face he fired twice, deliberately,
choosing the exposed Indian as a target. The latter, striving to mount
his frightened pony, fell forward, grasping the mane desperately, a
stream of blood dyeing his blanket as the animal dashed across the
valley. Dupont had whirled the girl's horse to the left, and, with her
body as a shield, was attempting to escape. Already he was too far
away to make a revolver shot safe. Hamlin arose to his knees, and
picked up the dropped rifle. His lips were pressed tight; his eyes
full of grim determination. Why didn't Dupont fire? Could it be he
was unarmed? Or was he hoping by delay to gain a closer shot?
Keen-eyed, resolute, the Sergeant determined to take no chances. The
rifle came to a level,--a spurt of flame, a sharp report, and the pony
staggered to its knees, and sank, bearing its helpless burden with it.
Dupont let go his grip on the rein, and stood upright, clearly outlined
against the white hillside, staring back toward the kneeling Sergeant,
the faint smoke cloud whirling between.
"All right--damn you!--you've got me!" he said sullenly.
Hamlin never moved, except to snap out the emptied cartridge.
"Unbutton that coat," he commanded tersely. "Now turn around. No
shooting iron, hey! That's rather careless of a gun-man."
He dropped his rifle, and strode forward revolver in hand, glancing
curiously at the dead Indian as he passed. A riata hung to the pommel
of a saddle, and he paused to shake it loose, uncoiling the thin rope,
but with watchful eyes constantly on his prisoner. He felt no fear of
Dupont, now that he knew the fellow to be unarmed, and the wounded
Indian had vanished over the ridge. Yet Dupont was a powerful man, and
desperate enough to accept any chance. Something in the sullen,
glowering face confronting him awoke the Sergeant to caution. He
seemed to sense the plan of the other, and stopped suddenly, slipping
the rope through his fingers.
He swung the coil about his head, measuring the distance, every faculty
concentrated on the toss. He had forgotten Hughes lying in the snow
behind; he neither saw nor heard the fellow scramble weakly to his
knees, revolver outstretched in a half-frozen hand. And Hughes, his
eyes already glazing in death, saw only the two figures. In that
moment hate triumphed over cowardice; he could not distinguish which
was Dupont, which Hamlin. In the madness of despair he cared
little--only he would kill some one before he died. His weapon wavered
frantically as he sought to aim, the man holding himself up by one
hand. Dupont, facing that way, saw this apparition, and leaped aside,
stumbling over the dead pony. Hughes' weapon belched, and Hamlin, the
lasso whirling above him in the air, pitched forward, and came crashing
down into the snow.
It was all the work of an instant, a wild, confused bit, so rapidly
enacted as to seem unreal even to the participants. Hamlin lay
motionless, barely conscious of living, yet unable to stir a muscle.
Hughes, screaming out one oath, sank back into a heap, his frozen
fingers still gripping his smoking weapon. Then Dupont rose cautiously
to his knees, peering forth across the dead body of the pony. The man
was unnerved, unable at first to comprehend what had occurred. He was
saved as by a miracle, and his great form shook from head to foot.
Then, as his eyes rested on the outstretched body of the Sergeant, hate
conquered every other feeling; he staggered to his feet, picked up the
gun lying in the snow, walked across, and brutally kicked the prostrate
form. There was no response, no movement.
"All I wish is that I 'd been the one to kill yer," he growled
savagely, grinning down. "Hell of a good shot, though I reckon the
blame fool meant it for me." He threw the rifle forward, in readiness,
and moved cautiously over toward Hughes.
"Deader than a door-nail," he muttered, pressing back the buffalo coat,
and staring contemptuously down into the white, staring face. "I
wonder how that coward ever happened to be here--laying out for me, I
reckon!"
He straightened up and laughed, glancing furtively about.
"Some good joke that. The whole outfit cleaned out, and me twenty
thousand to the good," feeling inside his coat to make sure. "It 's
there all right. Well, good-bye, boys, there don't seem to be nothing
here for me to stay for."
He caught the straying pony and swung up into the saddle, glanced about
once more at the motionless figures, and finally rode off up the ridge,
unconsciously following the tracks left by the fleeing Indian. If the
girl ever occurred to him, he gave no sign of remembrance, and she
uttered no word. Lying on her side, her eyes wide open, she watched
him ride away, across the barren space, until the slow-moving pony
topped the ridge, and disappeared on the other side. Twice the man
turned and glanced back into the valley, but saw nothing except the
black blotches on the snow. Molly made no motion, no outcry. She
preferred death there alone, rather than rescue at his hands. Scarcely
conscious, feeling no strength in her limbs, no hope pulsing at her
heart, she closed her eyes and lay still. Yet wrapped about as she
was, her young body remained warm, and the very disappearance of Dupont
yielded a sense of freedom, awoke a strong desire to live. Her eyes
opened again, despairingly, and gazed across the barren expanse. She
could see Hamlin lying face downward, the yellow lining of his cavalry
cape over his head. It seemed to her the man's foot moved. Could she
be dreaming? No! He actually drew up one limb.
This evidence that the Sergeant still lived gave her fresh strength and
renewed determination. She struggled to move her own feet; the left
was free, but the right was caught firmly beneath the pony. She
struggled desperately, forgetful of pain, in the faith that she might
save Hamlin. Little by little she worked the imprisoned limb free,
only to find it numb and helpless. She lay there breathless, conscious
that she ached from head to foot. Beyond her the Sergeant groaned and
turned partially over upon his side. Tugging at the blanket she
managed to free one arm, gripped the mane of the dead pony, and drew
herself into a sitting posture. Now the blood seemed to surge through
her veins in new volume, and she labored feverishly to release the
other hand. At last she undid a knot with her teeth, and slipped the
blanket from her, beating her hands together to restore circulation.
Her right leg still was too numb to stand upon, but she crept forward,
dragging it helplessly behind her over the snow, to where Hamlin lay.
The girl's heart seemed to stop beating as she looked at him--at the
white, colorless face, the closed eyes, the discoloration of blood
staining the temple. Yet he lived; his faint breath was plainly
perceptible in the frosty air.
"O God!" she sobbed, "what can I do!"
It was an unrestrained cry of anguish, yet there was no hesitation in
action. She had forgotten everything except that helpless figure lying
before her on the snow--her own danger, the surrounding desolation, the
dead forms accentuating that wilderness tragedy. With bare hands she
bathed his face in snow, rubbing the flesh until it flushed red,
pressing her own warm body against his, her lips speaking his name
again and again, almost hysterically, as though she hoped thus to call
him back to consciousness. Her exploring fingers told her that it was
no serious wound which had creased the side of his head; if there was
no other he would surely revive, and the discovery sent her blood
throbbing through her veins. She lifted his head to her lap, chafing
his cold wrists frantically, her eyes staring again out across the
barren snow fields, with fresh realization of their intense loneliness.
She choked back a sob of despair, and glanced down again into Hamlin's
face. He did not stir but his eyes were open, regarding her in
bewilderment.
"Molly," he whispered, forgetting, "is this really you? What has
happened?"
The girl's eyes filled instantly with tears, but she did not move,
except that the clasp of her hands grew stronger.
"Yes, I am Molly; please do not move yet. You have been hurt, but it
is all right now."
"Hurt!" he lifted his head slightly and stared about; then dropped it
again with a sigh of content. "Oh, yes, now I know. Hughes shot me
from behind." He struggled upright, in spite of her efforts at
restraint, feeling beside him for the rifle. "Dupont was there, behind
that dead pony. What became of Dupont?"
She dropped her face in her hands, her form trembling.
"He--he got away. He thought you were dead; to--to make sure he came
over and kicked you. Then he took your rifle, and the only pony left,
and rode off."
"And left you?"
"Yes--he--he never thought of me; only--only how he should escape with
the money. I never moved, never opened my eyes; perhaps he believed me
dead also, and--and I prayed he would. I would rather have died than
have him touch me again. And--and I thought you were dead too. O God!
It was so horrible!"
The man's voice was soft and low, thrilling with the love that refused
control.
"I know, dear; I know it all, now," he said tenderly, clasping her
hands. "But that is all over and gone." He put up one hand to his
wound. "Heavens, how my head aches! But that pain won't last long. I
am a bit groggy yet, but will be on my feet pretty soon. You are a
brave little girl. Tell me how you got free?"
She went over the short story slowly, not lifting her eyes to his, and
he listened in silence, moving his limbs about, confident of the
gradual return of strength.
"But how did it happen?" he asked. "Your capture? Your father's
death? It is all a mystery to me after I left you on the hotel
balcony."
The tears stood in her eyes suddenly uplifted to his, and impulsively
the man encircled her with his arm.
"You know I care, dear," he exclaimed recklessly. "You are not afraid
to tell me."
"No, no; you have been so kind, so true. I can tell you
everything--only it is so hard to confess the truth about my father."
"You suspect he was implicated?" he asked in astonishment, "that he
actually had a part in the plot?"
She looked at him gravely, down into his very soul.
"Yes, and--and that hurts more than all the rest."