He stole noiselessly down the stairs and disappeared. I tried another panel with the ax, but, as she was clever enough not to shoot, I reloaded my first pistol, and, taking what risk there was without thought, I seized the ax again and with one fierce blow smashed the lock to pieces. With the concussion the door fell partly in. I dropped the ax, put my shoulder to the door and swept the barricade inward, darting quickly through with my pistol raised.
She was handsome—terrible.
She was handsome—terrible. Frightened as she was, she had control of herself yet, and was magnificently defiant, breathing in quick gasps with her mouth open, her bosom heaving, as if she were suffocating. Her embroidered waist was half torn off and hung away from her neck, revealing her brown-white breast, or perhaps she had torn the bodice open herself for air. Her golden wreath was gone. I saw it on the floor, trampled out of shape. Her hair had fallen over her shoulders, but its disarray was lovely. Her filmy, sparkling gown was rent and spotted from her falls.
She had taken refuge behind an overthrown table and stood with her revolver ready. Over her head was a drifting cloud of smoke, about her a wild confusion of disordered furniture. A shaft of sunlight played upon her disheveled costume. In the stable, I heard the dogs barking frantically.
So much I observed in one flash—the picture will always be with me as distinct as a photograph—but I had no time to speak, or even to think what I should do next, for, after that momentary pause, she bent forward deliberately and fired at me point-blank.
I felt a sting on my left arm where her bullet grazed, but, without stopping to find whether I was hurt or not, I fired with both pistols at once, and went forward at her. The sound of the double shot in the closed room was terrific. Her eyes, staring and fascinated, kept on me for an instant as if she were paralyzed, then she screamed again—her voice rivaled the pistol shots—and, suddenly pushing the table with all her might against me, she ran for the door. As she passed, I shot again. The din was maddening.
It was not my intention to finish with her there, though, and again I gave her a chance to escape, driving her before me. As she dashed out she brushed against a framed Madonna upon the wall and it came crashing down. She stumbled on the threshold—I thought she would never get away—and, moaning pitifully, she half ran, half fell down the stairway.
It was a dirty piece of business. I was sickened by it. But, having gone so far, I had no thought of stopping till I had accomplished my object. I gave her a moment's time, therefore, and then, leaving that horrid smoking chaos in her room, I followed her.
She had gone out the front door and turned the corner of the house, making, by some fatal impulse, for the stable. The barking of the collies had ceased, but as I got to the yard I heard it recommence in a higher and more violent key. It seemed incredible to me that she had sought refuge in the stable, but as I looked, I saw the great door rolled shut. When I came up to it, King came out of his cabin room.