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Molly McDonald - A Tale of the Old Frontier by Randall Parrish
page 67 of 309 (21%)
at the river. Here, under the protection of the bank, Hamlin put down
his burden and stood erect, stretching his strained muscles and staring
back into the dark.

What now? Which way should they turn? He had accomplished all he had
planned for himself back there in the coach, but now he became aware of
other problems awaiting solution. In less than an hour it would be
daylight; he almost imagined it was lighter already over yonder in the
east. With the first dawn those watchful Indians, creeping cautiously
closer, would discover the stage deserted, and would be on their trail.
And they had left a trail easily followed. Perhaps the hard, dry
ground might confuse those savage trackers, but they would scour the
open country between bluff and river, and find the dead warrior in the
gully. That would tell the story. To go west, along the edge of the
river, wading in the water, would be useless precaution; such a trick
would be suspected at once, and there was no possibility of rescue from
that direction. They might as well walk open-eyed into a trap. There
was but one hope, one opportunity--to cross the stream before dawn came
and hide among those shifting sand-dunes of the opposite shore. Hamlin
thoroughly understood the risk involved, the treacherous nature of the
Arkansas, the possibility that both might be sucked down by engulfing
quicksand, yet even such a lonely death was preferable to Indian
torture.

The girl at his feet stirred and moaned. In another moment he had
filled his hat with water from the river, had lifted her head upon one
arm, and using the handkerchief from about his throat, was washing away
the blood that matted her hair. Now that his fingers felt the wound,
he realized the force of the blow stunning her, although its outward
manifestation was slight. Her figure trembled in his arms and her eyes
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