reproach him--he merely groaned, eloquently.

Trevison leaned against the opening of the chamber. His muscles ached; he
was in the grip of a mighty weariness. Nature was protesting against the
great strain that he had placed upon her. But his jaws set as he felt the
flesh of his legs quivering; he grinned the derisive grin of the fighter
whose will and courage outlast his physical strength. He felt a pulse of
contempt for himself, and mingling with it was a strange elation--the
thought that Rosalind Benham had strengthened his failing body, had
provided it with the fuel necessary to keep it going for hours yet--as it
must. He did not trust himself to yield to his passions as he stood
there--that might have caused him to grow reckless. He permitted the
weariness of his body to soothe his brain; over him stole a great calm. He
assured himself that he could throw it off any time.

But he had deceived himself. Nature had almost reached the limit of
effort, and the inevitable slow reaction was taking place. The tired body
could be forced on for a while yet, obeying the lethargic impulses of an
equally tired brain, but the break would come. At this moment he was
oppressed with a sense of the unreality of it all. The pueblo seemed like
an ancient city of his dreams; the adobe houses details of a weird
phantasmagoria; his adventures of the past forty-eight hours a succession
of wild imaginings which he now reviewed with a sort of detached interest,
as though he had watched them from afar.

The moonlight shone on him; he heard Levins exclaim sharply: "Your arm's
busted, ain't it?"

He started, swayed, and caught himself, laughing lowly, guiltily, for he
realized that he had almost fallen asleep, standing. He held the arm up to
the moonlight, examining it, dropping it with a deprecatory word. He
settled against the wall near the opening again.

"Hell!" declared Levins, anxiously, "you're all in!"

Trevison did not answer. He stole along the outside wall of the adobe
house and peered out into the plains. The men were still where they had
been when the shot had been fired, and the sight of them brought a cold
grin to his face. He backed away from the corner, dropped to his stomach
and wriggled his way back to the corner, shoving his rifle in front of
him. He aimed the weapon deliberately, and pulled the trigger. At the
flash a smothered cry floated up to him, and he drew back, the thud of
bullets against the adobe walls accomp