From outside came a little sound, not to be catalogued. It might have
been only a dead twig snapping under the talons of a night bird
alighting in the big oak tree. But suddenly the arms about her relaxed,
the man whirled and sprang back, whipped open the door and silently was
gone into the outer night.

Moaning, swaying, dizzy and sick, she crouched in a far corner. Then she
ran to the door and looked out. There was nothing moving to be seen
anywhere. Just the white moonlight here, the black patches of shadow
there, the sombre wall of the forest land a few yards away. Her nausea
of dread, her uncertainty, had passed. With never a glance behind her
she ran down toward the barn. She knew that she would be afraid to go
into the black maw of the silent building for her horse and yet she knew
that she must, that she must mount and ride.... She had never until now
known the terror of being alone, utterly alone in the night and the
wilderness.

Suddenly she stopped to stare incredulously. About a corner of the barn,
coming out into the bright moonlight, leading his own horse and her own,
was Buck Thornton. She was so certain that he had gone! For the instant
she could not move but stood powerless to lift a hand, rooted to the
spot. She noted that his face was unhidden now, his black hat pushed
far back on his head, while from his hip pocket trailed the end of a
handkerchief which may and may not have had slits let in it for his eyes
to peer through.

"You ... here? Yet?" she found herself stammering at him.

"Yes," he answered heavily. "I have been all this time looking for the
horses. The corral was broken; they had gotten out into the pasture."

"A likely tale!" she cried with a sudden heat of passionate fury at the
man and his cold manner and his mad thought that she was fool enough to
be beguiled from her knowledge of what he was. And then a fresh fear
made her draw back and widened her eyes. She had not thought of madness
but ... if the man were mad....

But he was not mad and she knew it. His were the clear eyes of perfect
sanity. He was simply ... an unthinkable brute.

"Look," she said as his horse moved nervously. "Your horse _does_ limp!"

His answer came quickly. And there was a queer note in his voice, harsh
and ugly, which sent a shiver through her shaken nerves:

"A man did that while we were in the cabin. With a knife." The moon
shone full in his face; she had never seen such a transformation, such a