THE FIGHT ON THE LEDGE
In that instant of supreme horror, Mary Thorne found time to be thankful that terror struck her momentarily dumb. For now, with lips parted and a cry of warning trembling there, she saw that it was too late. Like a pointer freezing to the scent, Lynch’s whole body had stiffened; one hand gripped the leveled Colt, a finger caressed the trigger. At this juncture a cry would almost surely bring that tiny, muscular contraction which might be fatal.
From behind the ledge Buck’s hat had disappeared, and a faint creak of saddle-leather told the girl that he had dismounted and by so doing must have moved a trifle out of range.
Sick with horror and desperation, the girl’s eye fell upon a stone lying at her feet—a jagged piece of granite perhaps twice the size of a baseball. In a flash she dropped the bridle-reins and, bending, caught it up stealthily. Freckles pricked his ears forward, but with a fleeting, imploring touch of one hand against his sweaty neck, Mary steadied herself for a moment, 333 slowly drew back her arm, and, with a fervent, silent prayer for strength, she hurled the stone.
It grazed Lynch’s face and struck his wrist with a force that jerked up the barrel of the revolver. The spurt of flame, the sharp crack of the shot, the clatter of the Colt striking the edge of the precipice, all seemed to the girl to come simultaneously. A belated second afterward Lynch’s furious curses came to her. With dilated eyes she saw him snatch frantically at the sliding weapon, and as it toppled out of sight into the cañon barely an inch ahead of his clutching, striving fingers, she thrilled with sudden fierce joy.
“Curse you!” he frothed, springing up and rushing at her. “You—”
“Buck!” she screamed. “Quick! His gun’s gone! He—”
A blow from his fist struck her mouth and flung her backward against the horse. Half fainting, she saw Freckles lunge over her shoulder and heard the vicious click of his teeth snapping together. But Lynch, ducking out of reach of the angry horse, caught Mary about the waist and dragged her toward the precipice.
Involuntarily she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, stirred by the curious silence and the sudden cessation of all movement, she found herself staring dazedly into the face of Buck Green.
He stood very quietly just inside the narrow 334 entrance to the ledge, not more than ten feet from her. In one hand was a six-shooter; the other hung straight at his side, the fingers tightly clenched. As he met her bewildered glance, his eyes softened tenderly and the corners of his lips curved in a momentary, reassuring smile. Then abruptly his face froze again.