id she not shoot? Because she was a woman. Because it is the
God-given purpose of womanhood to give life, not take it.

The gun sank, sank--down out of the light, down out of sight.

And the next instant he was upon her.

The flash-lamp was knocked from her hand and blinked out. It struck
the stove and she heard the tinkle of the broken lens. The woman's
hand caught at the sacking before the window at her left shoulder.
Gripping it wildly to save herself from that onslaught, she tore it
away. For the second time the revolver was twisted from her raw
fingers.

The man reared upward, over her.

"Where are you?" he roared again and again. "I'll show you! Lemme at
you!"

Outside the great yellow moon of early winter, arising late, was
coming up over the silhouetted line of purple mountains to the
eastward. It illumined the cabin with a faint radiance, disclosing
the woman crouching beneath the table.

The man saw her, pointed his weapon point-blank at her face and fired.

To Cora McBride, prostrate there in her terror, the impact of the
bullet felt like the blow of a stick upon her cheek-bone rocking her
head. Her cheek felt warmly numb. She pressed a quick hand
involuntarily against it, and drew it away sticky with blood.

_Click! Click! Click_!

Three times the revolver mechanism was worked to accomplish her
destruction. But there was no further report. The cylinder was empty.

"Oh, God!" the woman moaned. "I fed you and offered to help you. I
refused to shoot you because of your mother--your wife--your babies.
And yet you----"

"Where's your cartridges?" he cried wildly. "You got more; gimme
that belt!"

She felt his touch upon her. His crazy fingers tried to unbutton the
clasp of the belt and holster. But he could secure neither while she
fought him. He pinioned her at length with his knee. His fingers
secured a fistful of the cylinders from her girdle, and he opened
the chamber of the revolver.

She realized the end was but a matter of moments. Nothing but a
miracle could save her now.

Convulsively she groped about for something with which to strike.
Nothing lay within reach of her bleeding fingers, however, but a
little piece of dried sapling. She tried to struggle loose, but the
lunatic held her mercilessly. He continued the mechanical loading of
the revolver.

The semi-darkness of the hut, the outline of the moon afar through
the uncurtained window--these swam before her.... Suddenly her eyes