The unexpectedness of the shots, their tragic effect, the falling of the stricken man and the flight of the other, brought no word from Mary Standish.  But her breath was sobbing, and in the lifting of the purplish gloom she turned her face for an instant to Alan, tensely white, with wide-open eyes.  Her hair covered her like a shining veil, and where it clustered in a disheveled mass upon her breast Alan saw her hand thrusting itself forward from its clinging concealment, and in it—­to his amazement—­was a pistol.  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.  He was joyously amazed at her lightness.  She was like a child in his arms, a glorious little goddess hidden and smothered in her long hair, and he held her closer as he hurried toward the cabins, conscious of the soft tightening of her arms about his neck, feeling the sweet caress of her panting breath, strengthened and made happy by her helplessness.

Thus they came out of the bottom as the first mist of slowly approaching rain touched his face.  He could see farther now—­half-way back over the narrow trail.  He climbed a slope, and here Mary Standish slipped from his arms and stood with new strength, looking into his face.  His breath was coming in little breaks, and he pointed.  Faintly they could make out the shadows of the corral buildings.  Beyond them were no lights penetrating the gloom from the windows of the range of houses.  The silence of the place was death-like.

And then something grew out of the earth almost at their feet.  A hollow cry followed the movement, a cry that was ghostly and shivering, and loud enough only for them to hear, and Sokwenna stood at their side.  He talked swiftly.  Only Alan understood.  There was something unearthly and spectral in his appearance; his hair and beard were wet; his eyes shot here and there in little points of fire; he was like a gnome, weirdly uncanny as he gestured and talked in his monotone while he watched the nigger-head bottom.  When he had finished, he did not wait for an answer, but turned and led the way swiftly toward the range houses.