if it was a lion she could not stand the suspense. She summoned her bravery to moisten her parching throat and suddenly shouted. The echoes of the cave multiplied her voice and, instantly, the eyes vanished. She fancied that she caught the soft pad of retreating paws, the phantom of a slinking body. And then she saw that the fissure entrance was slowly revealing itself. Its black void became deep purple, then grey. Little by little it changed until she could see the opposing cliffs glowing rose and orange, harbingers of hope.
The light beckoned her. The cave was filled with terrors, past, overcome, but leaving the stamp of ordeal. Nor could she endure the bare thought of remaining in a cave where Hollister might find her, blind as he was. The memory of the spurts of fire from his gun, the spatter of bullets, the thud of the spent missile against the inner side of the niche, was too real. She went to the entrance, craning out, looking for Hollister. He might be hiding near. A sound, the scuffle of loosened shale, might give him what he was waiting for, some sense of her whereabouts and direction.
There was no man in sight. A rock-rabbit scudded across from a cranny and started nibbling at the herbage before the dew went off. A lizard flitted out from a crevice and halted, surveying her with doubtful beady eyes, while its jeweled throat palpitated in waves of green and crimson. High up, two buzzards were wheeling in opposing circles. She ventured out, careful of her balance under her handicap of bound hands. She thought of the horses
