The murderers had gone away. Their task seemed complete, and they had no wish to tarry too long after the countryside had been aroused by that beacon of fire.
But it was much later that neighborhood searchers found Alexander sitting on a mound of salvaged wheat with the head of an unconscious man in her lap. It was a man stripped to the waist, sweat-covered and smoke blackened. The girl was mumbling incoherent things into his unresponsive ear.
"Ye saved ther wheat fer us anyhow—an' ther doctor says he hain't none hurted beyond being scorched up some," declared Warwick McGivins that same night at his own house, and Alexander, limp to collapse with her long vigil of terror, but with eyes that glowed with triumph—and with something else—replied, "I've saved somethin' better then a mighty heap of wheat."
Jerry spoke from the bed, where he lay conscious now, but still very weak.
"Things looked mighty unsartain—fer a spell."
And the girl answered in a silvery voice that held the thrill of invincible courage. "Nothin' hain't never goin' ter be unsartain fer us from now on. Hit teks fire, I reckon, ter weld iron—but——"
The enfeebled man tried to raise himself on his elbow, but she gently pressed him back.
"Does ye mean hit, Alexander?" he whispered tensely. "Hit hain't jest because I've been hurted a leetle—an' ye're compassionate fer me?"
"Jerry," she said and her voice became all at once softly tremulous, "jest es soon as ye're able I wants ye ter tek me in yore arms—an' I don't never want ye ter let me go ergin!"
"I'll git thet strong right soon," he declared with a fervor that brought the strength back to his voice—and the sparkle back into his blood-shot eyes.