"I ain't got no gun." The mumbled words came back to her indistinctly. "D'you think if I'd have had—"
"Stand where you are. And don't you make no move from there. We'll be on our way,—now."
He stood still.
"Come on, China-Ching."
She started toward the road, the dog at her heels. Once as she went she turned to look at the emptied, quiet kennels, at the moonlight drenched waste that had once been a garden; at the huddled figure of the man standing there so silently.
"Good-by, James," she called.
Out in the road she paused to look up and down the long, white stretch of it. The chow stopped at her side. His great, liquid brown eyes were raised to hers. She could feel his impatience to be off. Suddenly he started.
Her feet followed those padded, pattering feet.
"Aw, China-Ching," she whispered, "aw, China-Ching—"
[1] Published originally in The All Story Magazine.