A little surprised not to meet his friend, he concluded that he might possibly have missed his way. For the first time the boy hesitated. Then, as he stood, he heard a rifle, and, sure at once that Carington must have shot something, he ran with greater speed. In a few moments the tangle of undergrowth checked his pace. Some five minutes or more went by, and he saw a flare of light. Thinking it strange, he hurried his steps, and then, of a sudden, stood still.
The woman had carefully approached her prey, ax in hand, and at last saw, as she strained her vision, that Carington’s rifle lay out of his reach. Reassured, she went on more boldly. Looking around, and seeing no one near, she calmly lifted the man’s head, and let it fall. This seemed enough. She took the roll of money, and began to disengage the watch-guard; but, unable to release the catch in the buttonhole of his jacket, struck one of the matches which, as usual, she had in her pocket, caught up a scrap of birch-bark, and, lighting it, saw by the flare how to undo the chain. As she dropped the watch into her bosom, a long gasp broke from the chest of the man beneath her.
“He ain’t done for,” she exclaimed, and rose to her feet, the roll of burning birch in one hand, the ax in the other. She stepped back a pace, cast down the blazing bark, which flashed forth anew as she let her right hand slip up the handle and lifted the ax.
A voice rang out to the left, “Stand, or I’ll shoot!”
She set a foot on the fading bit of fire, and, still gripping the ax, fled, with one hoarse cry, through the woods, striking against the trees, falling, tearing her hands and clothes in the raspberry vines.
Joe heard her coming, and stumbled out.
“He ain’t dead,” she cried, “and there’s another man there. I got the money, though. Come! quick! Take blankets—go on to the road. I’ll be there in a minute. Don’t stand staring. You’re drunk!”
He was. All day long he had been drinking; and when she went out, he found his bottle and emptied it, half crazed with fear. He obeyed her with difficulty and came out staggering—letting the blankets trail, and stumbling as he went. Then he halted.
“Where am I going?”
“Oh, the river! the river!—the dugout! Fool! sot! The dugout’s at the lower landing, isn’t it? I left it this morning.”