He recognized the weapon--one of a brace of
light automatics which his friend, Carl Lomen, had presented to him
several Christmas seasons ago. Pride and a strange exultation swept over
him. Until now she had concealed the weapon, but all along she had
prepared to fight--to fight with _him_ against their enemies! He wanted
to stop and take her in his arms, and with his kisses tell her how
splendid she was. But instead of this he sped more swiftly ahead, and
they came into the nigger-head bottom which lay in a narrow barrier
between them and the range.
Through this ran a trail scarcely wider than a wagon-track, made through
the sea of hummocks and sedge-boles and mucky pitfalls by the axes and
shovels of his people; finding this, Alan stopped for a moment, knowing
that safety lay ahead of them. The girl leaned against him, and then was
almost a dead weight in his arms. The last two hundred yards had taken
the strength from her body. Her pale face dropped back, and Alan brushed
the soft hair away from it, and kissed her lips and her eyes, while the
pistol lay clenched against his breast. Even then, too hard-run to
speak, she smiled at him, and Alan caught her up in his arms and darted
into the narrow path which he knew their pursuers would not immediately
find if they could bet beyond their vision.
Pages:
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291