“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.