"No," hysterically, "it is just black to me."
"You have n't got the plainsman's eyes yet. Watch, now; I 'm going to stir the fellow up."
He leaned forward, the stock of the Henry held to his shoulder, and she clutched the window-casing. An instant the muzzle of the rifle wavered slightly, then steadied into position.
"Have to guess the distance," he muttered in explanation, and pulled the trigger.
There was a lightning flash, a sharp ringing report, a yell in the distance, followed by the sound of scrambling. Hamlin laughed, as he lowered his gun.
"Made him hump, anyway," he commented cheerfully. "Now what comes next?"
"I—I do not know," she answered, as though the question had been asked her, "do you?"
Somehow she was not as frightened as she had been. The calm steady coolness of the man was having its natural effect, was helping to control her own nerves. She felt his strength, his confidence, and was beginning to lean upon him—he seemed to know exactly what he was about.
"Well, no, honestly I don't; not yet," he returned, hesitating slightly. "There is no use denying we are in a mighty bad hole. If Moylan had n't got shot we might have held out till help arrived; I 've got about twenty cartridges left; but you and I alone never could do it. I 've got to think it out, I reckon; this has been a blind fight so far; nothing to it but blazing away as fast as I could pull trigger. Now, maybe, I can use my brains a bit."
She could not see him, but some instinct led her to put out her hand and touch the rough sleeve of his shirt. It made her sure of his presence, his protection. The man felt the movement, and understood its meaning, his heart throbbing strangely.