6

When Joan returned to consciousness she was lying half outside the
opening of the cabin and above her was a drift of blue gun-smoke,
slowly floating upward. Almost as swiftly as perception of that
smoke came a shuddering memory. She lay still, listening. She did
not hear a sound except the tinkle and babble and gentle rush of the
brook. Kells was dead, then. And overmastering the horror of her act
was a relief, a freedom, a lifting of her soul out of the dark
dread, a something that whispered justification of the fatal deed.

She got up and, avoiding to look within the cabin, walked away. The
sun was almost at the zenith. Where had the morning hours gone?

"I must get away," she said, suddenly. The thought quickened her.
Down the canon the horses were grazing. She hurried along the trail,
trying to decide whether to follow this dim old trail or endeavor to
get out the way she had been brought in. She decided upon the
latter. If she traveled slowly, and watched for familiar landmarks,
things she had seen once, and hunted carefully for the tracks, she
believed she might be successful. She had the courage to try. Then
she caught her pony and led him back to camp.

"What shall I take?" she pondered. She decided upon very little--a
blanket, a sack of bread and meat, and a canteen of water. She might
need a weapon, also. There was only one, the gun with which she had