From the lip of the gulch she swung abruptly to the right. Her horse stumbled and went down just as a bullet flew over her head. Before she was free of the stirrups strong hands pinned her shoulders to the ground. She heard a glad startled cry. The rough hands became immediately gentle. Then things grew black. The last she remembered was that the mountains were dancing up and down in an odd fashion.
Her eyes opened to see Curly. She was in his arms and his face was broken with emotions of love and tenderness.
“You’re not hurt,” he implored.
“No.”
“He didn’t—mistreat you?” His voice was trembling as he whispered it.
“No—No.”
And at that she broke down. A deep sob shook her body—and another. She buried her head on his shoulder and wept.
Without losing an instant the convict set himself at the climb. His haste, the swift glances shot behind him, the appalling dread that made his nerves ragged, delayed his speed by dissipating the singleness of his energy. His face and hands were torn with catclaw, his knee bruised by a slip against a sharp jut of quartz.
When he reached the top he was panting and shaken. Before he had moved a dozen steps a man came out of the brush scarce seventy-five yards away and called to him to surrender. He flung his rifle to place and fired twice.