Time had rolled back, and he was the old Stampede
Smith. He saw under him lust and passion and murder, as in other days he
had seen them, and between him and desire there was neither law nor
conscience to bar the way, and his dream--a last great fight--was here
to fill the final unwritten page of a life's drama that was almost
closed. And what a fight, if he could make that carpet of soft, white
sand unheard and unseen. Six to one! Six men with guns at their sides
and rifles in their hands. What a glorious end it would be, for a
woman--and Alan Holt!
He blessed the firing up the kloof which kept the men's faces turned
that way; he thanked God for the sound of combat, which made the
scraping of rock and the rattle of stones under his feet unheard. He was
almost down when a larger rock broke loose, and fell to the ledge. Two
of the men turned, but in that same instant came a more thrilling
interruption. A cry, a shrill scream, a woman's voice filled with
madness and despair, came from the depth of the cavern, and the five men
stared in the direction of its agony. Close upon the cries came Mary
Standish, with Graham behind her, reaching out his hands for her. The
girl's hair was flying, her face the color of the white sand, and
Graham's eyes were the eyes of a demon forgetful of all else but her.
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