“Come,” he gasped. “Let’s get out. This––this is hell.”
He took the half-swooning girl in his arms.
“Get a grip on yourself, Jo––just for a little. We must go––at once.”
“But Daddy––Daddy–––”
Wilson closed his eyes as though to shut out the sight he had last seen when looking into the face of that man.
“It is better––as it is.”
Stubbs, still with a care for the jewels, helped Wilson on with his belt and fastened his own into place. He had had a good rest and felt comparatively fresh, but the others tottered as they walked.
Into the dark among the trees they went, following the faint trail which led towards the big mountains which were still a barrier,––on––on––on until the girl dropped in her tracks from exhaustion and Wilson beside her.
For six hours Stubbs maintained a grim watch over the two, his rifle across his knees, hoping against hope 328 for one bit of good luck more––that if so be there was another attack, he might have at least one fair shot at the Priest. Whether the man was the girl’s father or not (and he privately doubted the story) he felt that this was the only thing which would ever take from his mouth the taste of rope.
But he was disappointed. The morning broke fair and peaceful with, so far as they could see, the birds and squirrels the only occupants of this forest besides themselves. In fact, the next three days save for the strain of being constantly alert were a sort of idyl for Wilson and Jo. They had little difficulty in shooting sufficient food for their needs, and water was plentiful. The trail led through a fair land gay, at this time of year, with many flowers.