his own pistol arm was pinned under the weight of his body.
For a breath he ceased to struggle, looking up in frozen calmness at the
man whose finger was already crooked to fire.

When a shot suddenly rang out, it passed through him in a lightning
flash that it was the shot intended for him. But he saw no movement in
the outlaw's arm; no smoke from his gun. For a moment the man sat rigid
and stiff in his saddle. Then his arm dropped. His revolver fell with
a clatter among the stones. He slipped sidewise with a low groan and
tumbled limp and lifeless almost at Philip's feet.

"Billinger--Billinger--"

The words came in a sob of joy from Philip's lips. Billinger had come in
time--just in time!

He struggled so that he could turn his head and look down the chasm.
Yes, there was Billinger--a hundred yards away, hunched over his saddle.
Billinger, with his broken leg, his magnificent courage, his--

With a wild cry Philip jerked himself free.

Good God, it was not Billinger! It was Isobel! She had slipped from the
saddle--he saw her as she tottered a few steps among the rocks and then
sank down among them. With his pistol still in his hand he ran back to
where Billinger's horse was standing. The girl was crumpled against the
side of a boulder, with her head in her arms--and she was crying. In an
instant he was beside her, and all that he had ever dreamed of, all that
he had ever hoped for, burst from his lips as he caught her and held
her close against his breast. Yet he never could have told what he said.
Only he knew that her arms were clasped about his neck, and that, as she
pressed her face against him, she sobbed over and over again something
about the old days at Lac Bain--and that she loved him, loved him! Then
his eyes turned up the chasm, and what he saw there made him bend low
behind the boulder and brought a strange thrill into his voice.

"You will stay here--a little while," he whispered, running his fingers
through her shining hair. There was a tone of gentle command in his
words as he placed her against the rock. "I must go back for a few
minutes. There is no danger--now."

He stooped and picked up the carbine which had fallen from her hand.
There was one cartridge still in the breech. Replacing his revolver in
its holster he rose above the rocks, ready to swing the rifle to his
shoulder. Up where the outlaws lay, a man was standing in the trail. He
was making no effort to conceal himself, and did not