Meanwhile, from opposite sides of the fireplace, the desperado and the girl watched each other. He had a feral cunning. It had served to keep him alive more than once when he seemed at the end of his rope. Now he piled the fuel high in the stone chimney and pretended to go to sleep.
The glow of the heat had the intended effect. It formed an alliance with Vicky’s fatigue. She, too, began to nod at last, her wariness lulled by the stertorous breathing of the big huddled figure opposite. The sense of responsibility was still active in her mind. She decided afterwards that she must have cat-napped, as drivers do on a long night trip, now and again for a few seconds at a time.
From one of these she awakened with a start. Dutch was tiptoeing toward her. Their eyes met. He crouched for the leap as her fingers busied themselves with the revolver.
The roar of the explosion filled the cabin. The weight of the plunging man flung Vicky to the floor. She lay face down, breathless, oppressed by his huge bulk. The six-shooter had gone clattering beyond her reach.
The weight lifted from her. She heard scuffling feet and heavy grunts as she recovered the weapon and fled to the wall. When she turned it was to see the butt of a six-gun rising and falling. There was a gasp, a groan, and one of the struggling figures sank down.
The one still standing was Hugh McClintock.
The man on the floor writhed painfully, turned over, and sank into quietude.
“Are you hurt?” Hugh asked Vicky.
“No. Are you?”
He shook his head. “I fell asleep. Lucky it was no worse.”