"Rea?" he said. His rifle lifted above the horizontal, its butt at his hip.
"Woa," the rider moaned faintly, and the trembling ystan came to a drooping stand.
Brink reached up to the rider to help her down.
"No," Rea whispered. "Hide me—hide—horse. Savages...."
Brink grunted under his breath and tugged at the steaming ystan's bit to lead the beast off the highway. They pushed through the clawing branches, the ystan's breathing stentorian and ragged. The exhausted mount was dying on its feet.
They had scarcely reached the open meadow within, when the ystan collapsed. Rea fell with him, her right leg pinned under the twitching wet hulk. As Brink tugged her leg free, she groaned and went limp in his arms. Only then did he feel the stickiness of half-dried blood on her tunic and discover the sharp arrowhead that projected a full two inches from the front of her left shoulderblade.
Gently he whittled at the arrow's exposed shaft until the irregular metal head dropped off and then he jerked the arrow from the wound. He was glad that she was unconscious.
The distant voices of humans, shouting unintelligible phrases, warned him of the approach of the savages. The fire! With his hands he smothered and buried the flames. It was possible that the aborigines might pass them by. He could not banish the smell of smoke as he had the telltale glow of the coals, but the direction of the wind might protect them....
The stiffening loom of the ystan lay between them and the park's brushy entrance. Carefully he slid his rifle up and over the saddle.
Voices and the sliding, chomp-tramp of hide-shod feet came and passed on. They had missed the break in the return tracks of Rea's ystan. Or, perhaps, the hoofprints of Brink's mount seemed to them a continuation of her spoor.