Silence came. The mouth of the cave darkened, the fire flared and died, while she crouched, hardly daring to breathe.
With the ending of the major suspense and dread the faculty of co-ordination came fully back to her. She breathed freely, despite the gag in her mouth, she thought clearly. She had tugged vainly through the afternoon at her bonds, made with leather thongs taken from Hollister's saddle, craftily moistened before using. They refused to loosen though she had chafed her wrists raw and lacerated her gums trying to bite through the seasoned stuff of rawhide. The thongs were so wrapped about her wrists that she could barely touch the knots in the handkerchiefs tied at the back of her neck, knotted so closely that her aching jaws seemed dislocated, and she could form no idea of which twist to work at. Often she had thought she only tightened the ligatures.
Now she made fresh effort. The horror of Hollister possibly finding his way back to the cave and finding her there was a vivid one. She could fancy him groping along the face of the cliffs until he found the opening. This and the steadily increasing chill of the night spurred her to fresh efforts. By an inspiration that had been lacking to her tired, scared brain, she crooked her legs, doubling them close to her slender body, squatting in the niche, head bowed to avoid its roof.
And she found that she could slip her bound hands down towards her feet over her knees, far enough to pluck at the ankle knots. They were stubborn.
