He saw that she was pale and perspiring freely. She moistened her lips before she spoke.
Half a dozen paces further on he stopped again.
“Go on!” she said harshly.
“Got to tie my moccasin,” he said, dropping on one knee and turning half round, so that he could keep an eye on her. She gave a swift glance over her shoulder. They were not yet fully out of sight of the others.
“Your moccasin is not untied,” she said suddenly.
At the same moment Stonor, still crouching, sprang at her, taking care to keep under the gun. Grasping her knees, he flung her to the ground. He got the gun, but before he could raise it, she sprang at him from all fours like a cat, and clung to him with a passionate fury no man could have been capable of. Stonor was unable to shake her off without dropping the gun. Meanwhile she screamed for aid.
Both Imbrie and Clare came running. Imbrie, circling round the struggling pair, clubbed his gun and brought it down on Stonor’s head. The trooper went to earth. He did not altogether lose consciousness. The woman, maddened, recovered her gun, and was for dispatching him on the spot, but Imbrie, thinking of Clare, prevented her.
Stonor was soon able to rise, and to make his way back, albeit somewhat groggily, to the creek. Clare wished to support him, but he stopped her with a look.
When they got back to their camp Imbrie demanded with seeming indignation: “What was the matter with you? What did you expect to gain by jumping on her?”
“What did she take me into the bush for?” countered Stonor. “To put a bullet through me?”