hand, trembling, in spite of his iron nerve, groped its way upward.
She was lying back against the opposite window, her head bent sideways.

"My God," he thought, "did those devils get her?"

He lifted her slight figure up on one arm, all else blotted out, all
other memory vanished through this instant dread. His cheek stung
where flying splinters had struck him, but that was nothing. She was
warm, her flesh was warm; then his searching fingers felt the moist
blood trickling down from the edge of her hair. He let out his breath
slowly, the sudden relief almost choking him. It was bad enough
surely, but not what he had first feared, not death. She had been
struck hard--a flying splinter of wood, perhaps, or a deflected
bullet--her hair matted with blood, yet it was no more than a flesh
wound, although leaving her unconscious. If he hesitated it was but
for an instant. The entire situation recurred to him in a flash; he
must change his plans, but dare waste no time. If they were to escape
it must be accomplished now, shadowed by darkness, while those savage
watchers were safely beyond sound. His lean jaws set with fierce
determination, and he grimly hitched his belt forward, one sinewy hand
fingering the revolver. He would have to trust to that weapon entirely
for defense; he could not carry both the rifle and the girl.

Moving slowly, cautiously, fearful lest some creaking of the old stage
might betray his motions to those keen ears below, he backed through
the open door. Once feeling the ground firm beneath his feet, and
making sure that both canteen and haversack were secure, he reached
back into the darkness, grasping the form of the unconscious girl. He
stood erect with her held securely in his arms, strands of hair blowing
against his cheek, listening intently, striving with keen eyes to