But presently the fire rose and Hervey could clearly see the
cabin, sadly wrecked by the struggle, and the figure of Perris still
moveless.
Even now he went with gingerly steps, the gun thrust out before him.
It seemed a miracle that this tigerish fighter should have been
suddenly reduced to the helplessness of a child. Holding the gun
ready, he slipped his left hand under the fallen man and after a
moment, faintly but unmistakably, he felt the beating of the heart.
Let it be ended, then!
He pressed the muzzle of the revolver into the back of Perris but his
finger refused to tighten around the trigger. No, the powder-burn
would prove he had shot his man from behind, and that meant hanging.
A tug of his left hand flopped the limp body over, but then his hands
were more effectually tied than ever for the face of the unconscious
man worked strangely on him.
"It's him now," thought Hervey, "or me later on."
But still he could not shoot. "Helpless as a child"--why had that
comparison entered his mind? He studied the features, very pale
beneath the bloody bandage which Perris had improvised when
he recovered from his battle with the stallion. He was very
young--terribly young.
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