a low moan transfixed
her.

She seemed frozen rigid. Was the place already haunted? Her heart
swelled in her throat and a dimness came before her eyes. But another
moan brought a swift realization--Kells was alive. And the cold,
clamping sickness, the strangle in her throat, all the feelings of
terror, changed and were lost in a flood of instinctive joy. He was not
dead. She had not killed him. She did not have blood on her hands. She
was not a murderer.

She whirled to look at him. There he lay, ghastly as a corpse. And all
her woman's gladness fled. But there was compassion left to her, and,
forgetting all else, she knelt beside him. He was as cold as stone. She
felt no stir, no beat of pulse in temple or wrist. Then she placed her
ear against his breast. His heart beat weakly.

"He's alive," she whispered. "But--he's dying.... What shall I do?"

Many thoughts flashed across her mind. She could not help him now; he
would be dead soon; she did not need to wait there beside him; there was
a risk of some of his comrades riding into that rendezvous. Suppose his
back was not broken after all! Suppose she stopped the flow of blood,
tended him, nursed him, saved his life? For if there were one chance of
his living, which she doubted, it must be through her. Would he not be
the same savage the hour he was well and strong again? What difference
could she make in such a nature? The man was evil. He could not conquer
evil. She had been witness to that. He had driven Roberts to draw and
had killed him. No doubt he had deliberately and coldly murdered the two
ruffians, Bill and Halloway, just so he could be free of their glances
at her and be alone with her. He deserved to die there like a dog.

What Joan Randle did was surely a woman's choice. Carefully she rolled
Kells over. The back of his vest and shirt was wet with blood. She got
up to find a knife, towel, and water. As she returned to the cabin he
moaned again.

Joan had dressed many a wound. She was not afraid of blood. The
difference was that she had shed it. She felt sick, but her hands were
firm as she cut open the vest and shirt, rolled them aside, and bathed
his back. The big bullet had made a gaping wound, having apparently gone
through the small of his back. The blood still flowed. She could not
tell whether or not Kell's spine was broken, but she believed that the
bullet had gone between bone and muscle, or had glanced. There was a
blue welt just over his spi