“Grace Harlowe, there is blood on your face!” cried Emma as they ran. “Were you hit?”
“I got a scratch on the head. A bullet scratched my scalp when I started to run away from the fight,” grinned Grace.
The way was now becoming more rugged, but the girls did not lessen their pace, and for nearly an hour they continued their plunging, stumbling sprint, at the expense of many falls and bruises, thankful that, thus far, they had succeeded in eluding their pursuers.
The Outlaws Swung By.
“I can’t go any further!” wailed Emma. “I simply can’t, Grace.”
“You must, Emma. This is too exposed a place for us to halt. There! What did I tell you?”
A rifle bullet had pinged against a rock close at hand, and ricochetted off with a weird zing—g—g—g, followed by the report of a rifle.
Emma suddenly forgot her weariness and, together, the girls fled from that danger spot. Now that their presence had been discovered, Grace decided to make another change of course, which she did instantly. It was a fortunate change, too, for it led the girls to the edge of the mountain. A few yards below where they were standing, Grace saw a shelf of rock jutting out, and rightly surmised that beneath that they might find a hiding place.