"Kay!" she said in a weak voice.
McKay, his pack strapped to his back, his blood-shot eyes brilliant in his haggard visage, ran forward and bent over the thing. Then he shot him again, behind the ear.
The rage of the river drowned the sound of the shots; the man in the hut across the stream did not come to the door. But McKay caught sight of the shack; his fierce eyes questioned the girl, and she nodded.
He crossed the stream, leaping from bowlder to bowlder, and she saw him run up to the door of the hut, level his weapon, then enter. She could not hear the shots; she waited, half-dead, until he came out again, reloading his pistol.
She struggled desperately to retain her senses--to fight off the deadly faintness that assailed her. She could scarcely see him as he came swiftly toward her--she put out her arms blindly, felt his fierce clasp envelop her, passed so into blessed unconsciousness.
A drop or two of almost scalding broth aroused her. He held her in his arms and fed her--not much--and then let her stretch out on the sun-hot moss again.
Before sunset he awakened her again, and he fed her--more this time.
Afterward she lay on the moss with her golden-brown eyes partly open. And he had constructed a sponge of clean, velvety moss, and with this he washed her swollen mouth and bruised cheek, and her eyes and throat and hands and feet.
After the sun went down she slept again: and he stretched out beside her, one arm under her head and about her neck.
Moonlight pierced the foliage, silvering everything and inlaying the earth with the delicate tracery of branch and leaf.
Moonlight still silvered her face when she awoke. After a while the shadow slipped from his face, too.
"Kay?" she whispered.
"Yes, Yellow-hair."
And, after a little while she turned her face to his and her lips rested on his.
Lying so, unstirring, she fell asleep once more.