After three days in her dark corner of the hut the sunshine was wondrously inspiring to the girl, although the landscape on which she gazed was white and wild as December. It was incredible that only a few hours lay between the flower-strewn valley of her accident and this silent and desolate, yet beautiful, wilderness of snow. And so, as she looked into the eyes of the outlaw, it seemed as though she had known him from spring to winter, and her wish to help him grew with every hour of their acquaintanceship.
She planned his defense before Ward and Adams. “When they know how kind and helpful he has been they can but condone his one rash deed,” she argued in conclusion.
He was sitting at her feet, careless of time, the law, content with her nearness, and mindful only of her comfort, when a distant rifle-shot brought him to his feet with the swiftness of the startled stag.
“That’s your expedition,” he said, “or some one who needs help.”
Again the shots rang out, one, two, three—one, two, three.
“It’s a signal! It’s your party!”
Peggy uttered a cry of joy and rushed outside, but Alice turned an unquiet gaze on the outlaw. “You’d better fly!”
“What is the use?” he answered, bitterly. “The snow is so deep there is no show to cross the range, and my horse is weak and hungry.”
Gage appeared at the door. “Lemme take your gun, stranger; I want to answer the signal.”
“Where’s your own?”