atisfying. He could not disassociate himself from
her eyes--their beauty, their horror, the way they had looked at him.
It was as if a sudden revulsion had come over her; as if, looking down
upon her bleeding handiwork, the woman's soul in her had revolted, and
with that revulsion had come repentance--repentance and pity.

"That," thought Carrigan, "would be just like a woman--and especially a
woman with eyes like hers."

This left him but two conclusions to choose from. Either there had been
a mistake, and the woman had shown both horror and desire to amend when
she discovered it, or a too tender-hearted agent of Black Roger
Audemard had waylaid him in the heart of the white strip of sand.

The sun was another hour lower in the sky when Carrigan assured himself
in a series of cautious experiments that he was not in a condition to
stand upon his feet. In his pack were a number of things he wanted--his
blankets, for instance, a steel mirror, and the thermometer in his
medical kit. He was beginning to feel a bit anxious about himself.
There were sharp pains back of his eyes. His face was hot, and he was
developing an unhealthy appetite for water. It was fever and he knew
what fever meant in this sort of thing, when one was alone. He had
given up hope of the woman's return. It was not reasonable to expect
her to come back after her furious attempt to kill him. She had
bandaged him, bolstered him up, placed water beside him, and had then
left him to work out the rest of his salvation alone. But why the deuce
hadn't she brought up his pack?

On his hands and knees he began to work himself toward it slowly. He
found that the movement caused him pain, and that with this pain, if he
persisted in movement, there was a synchronous rise of nausea. The two
seemed to work in a sort of unity. But his medicine case was important
now, and his blankets, and his rifle if he hoped to signal help that
might chance to pass on the river. A foot at a time, a yard at a time,
he made his way down into the sand. His fingers dug into the footprints
of the mysterious gun-woman. He approved of their size. They were small
and narrow, scarcely longer than the palm and fingers of his hand--and
they were made by shoes instead of moccasins.

It seemed an interminable time to him before he reached his pack. When
he got there, a pendulum seemed swinging back and forth inside his
head, beating against his skull. He lay down with his pack for a
pillow,