The stricken man tried to sit up as his comrade raised his head from the ground; but the effort was too much for him, and he sank back limply in the corporal's arms. "Back and lungs!" he choked with a sound of leaking breath. His white mustache lifted, and he showed his teeth for an instant in a dauntless smile. "Like that old bighorn ram, David. He weathered a lot of hard years—but somebody got him at last—fine cleanshot—at five hundred—" He broke off in a painful coughing fit, and the light of consciousness faded from his steely eyes, and he slumped forward, a limp, insensate weight in Dexter's arms.
The corporal hastily examined the sagging body. A bullet, he found, had drilled its course through the dorsal muscles; had broken a rib and plowed deeper into the cavity of the lungs. As he pillowed the grizzled head against his shoulder he heard a soft crunching step beside him and was aware that Alison Rayne was bending above.
"Is it bad?" she asked.
He nodded without speaking.
"I'm very sorry," she said.
Dexter crouched silent for a moment, gazing vacantly towards the invisible heights, his face beaten by the driving snow. For the present, nothing further was to be feared from the distant sharpshooter. The rush of snow filled the air, blinding the vision. It was impossible to see a dozen feet beyond him. The dry, hissing flakes battered his eyes and obliterated the landscape. An army might have marched past him unobserved. He sighed thankfully, scarcely feeling the sting of the blizzard. At least he was vouchsafed the privilege of caring for his fallen comrade.
But what was he to do, where could he go? He must make his decision instantly. The wounded man could not be left exposed in the open. Prompt surgical attention was needed, but even more pressing was the need of shelter—a place to hide, to huddle protected from the white death that rode with the storm. His questing glance wandered off towards his right, where, he recalled, the nearest stretch of timber grew. It would be in that direction somewhere that he must search for his nook of safety.
He was bending down to gather the wounded body in his arms, when Alison Rayne spoke in a quick, low voice behind him. "If I could do anything to help, I'd stay," she said. "But I'd only add to your responsibilities now, and so—good-by."
"One moment!" he commanded sharply. "I hadn't heard any one tell you to go."
"It's an ugly thing to do—taking advantage of your misfortune," she returned. "But you leave me no choice. You and Colonel Devreaux intended to drag me to the fort with you, to accuse me of I don't know what, to put me through your legal tortures, as though I were some criminal. You had no mercy. And now I—the tables have turned through no act of mine. You think I'm going to wait until you're ready to work your will with me?" Her eyes gleamed, and she shook her head rebelliously. "I'd kill myself before I'd let you do what you mean to do with me. I'd rather die."