The pitch was steep and they rolled for some distance until they struck a rocky ledge. The chopper let go, slipped across the ledge, and vanished. Jim, jarred by the shock, lay still for some moments, and when he got up awkwardly saw nothing among the rocks and trees below. A rattle of gravel came out of the gloom, but it sounded some distance off. Then he heard a step and saw Carrie. She held the gun and was breathless. Her look was strained and her face white.
"Are you hurt, Jim?" she asked.
"No; not much, anyhow. Go back to the track. Give me the gun."
"Why do you want the gun?"
Jim made an impatient gesture. He had forgotten that Carrie had come to his help, and although he noted, mechanically, that she was highly strung and bearing some strain, he did not dwell on this. His antagonist had got away. He wanted to go after him, not to talk.
"The brute's not far off, and unless I'm quick he'll light out. Give me the gun!"
"I won't," said Carrie.
She stood a few yards above Jim, and jerked out the cartridges. Stooping swiftly, she picked them up and threw them among the trees. Then she laughed, a strained laugh, and held out the gun.
"You may have it now," she added. "You can't find the shells."
"Then I'll go without them," Jim rejoined, and plunged down the hill.