ily under his burden, a slight depression enough, but plain
to Sandy. Grit began to struggle in his arms. Molly's hair or body must
have brushed against lower boughs at the same height that Sandy carried
the wounded Grit and the scent still clung.

"They c'udn't go fur in this direction by the looks of the place, Grit,"
said Sandy. "See what you can make of it." He put him down by the
heel-print. Grit uttered a low growl deep back in his throat, his ruff
lifted. Hatred replaced love, but the two odors and emotions were
inextricably linked for Grit that day. He started off, hobbling along,
leading truly over rock or sand, into the cove where the split rock lay,
its crevice black, the vine curving down into it like a serpent. Where
Plimsoll had laid her down Grit halted and raised his head, his tongue
playing in and out of his jaws in his triumphant excitement, his eyes
luminous, his tail waving like the plume of a knight. Sandy gently
patted him, pressed him down to a crouch.

"Down charge, Grit," he whispered in his ear. "You've got it. You stay
here." Sandy had left his rifle at the cabin when he carried Grit out,
now he spun the two cylinders of his Colts, lowered himself into the
split, holding on to the vine, looking straight into Grit's lambent
eyes.

"Stay here, son," he said softly, and Grit licked the face now on a
level with his own. "I'll be back."

Sandy doubted whether he would find Plimsoll in this rock hollow, or any
one but Molly. There had been the one horse saddled and grazing free,
but that might have belonged to the dead man by the withered tree. It
made little difference. There was, to him, the certainty that Molly was
there and there was no other way of finding out or getting to her. He
had adventured more dangerous chances than this.

He felt his legs dangle into space and his hands found a curving loop in
the vine trunk that sagged slightly under his weight. Extended at full
length, his toes touched bottom. Letting go, he dropped lightly and
stood in blackness, the crevice above him showing a strip of azure
light. Sandy listened, wishing for Grit. He might be able to get him
down, now that he knew the depth of the descent.

There was only the sound of dripping water. He had a vague sense of
empty spaces all about him. He ventured a match, holding it at arm's
length in his left hand, flicking friction with his nail, an old trick.
The match caught and began to blaze instantly in the still air.