“Good heavens! Connie, you shouldn’t be here!” he exclaimed.
Connie’s face bore traces of weariness and sleeplessness. For three nights she had stolen softly away from her cabin on the hillside to lie hidden outside that of Donald. By night she had kept up a weary vigil, ever on the alert; in the forenoon she had lain behind a stump on the hill with eyes on Donald’s tall figure whenever he came in sight, her rifle ready for instant action. Hand did not know that death had nearly claimed him when he stepped forward to urge his men to charge. At that crucial moment Connie’s rifle was aimed at his heart.
“Get away from here at once, Connie!” said Donald, firmly, but kindly.
Connie lowered her eyes to her moccasined foot, that was weaving patterns in the dry soil, and shook her small head obstinately.
“Why do you wish to stay?” he asked.
She patted the stock of her rifle. “I—I want to help you.”
Donald looked down at the weary little figure. He stepped down from the stump, keeping a wary eye on the belligerent strikers, and came to her side. “Connie,” he said softly, “you are a dear, brave little girl, but you must get away from this place, as there may be serious trouble. Please, Connie,” he entreated, reaching out a hand to stroke her shining hair.
Connie’s face paled quickly, and she shrank from the caress. Her slender body trembled at his touch, and his display of tenderness brought a sudden rush of tears to her eyes. But she made no move to leave the scene.
Finding that he could not shake Connie’s determination to stay, Donald returned to the vantage point of the stump. “Jack,” he said, turning to his big foreman, “I am going to make one last appeal to these men. If I am any judge of human nature about half of them, if they can save their faces, will welcome the chance to go back to work. They are being dominated by Hand.”
Gillis shrugged his shoulders. “Do what you think best,” he said.