safe. Barring the dynamite they had used, Hsu Fu's party had not disturbed the camp.
Soon the little camp was quiet. Sheridan drowsed off, conscious of Mary Burrows close beside him. He woke once, to the touch of her fingers. In her sleep they had crept out and found his hand, the hand to his injured arm.
The dawn was rose-red on the rim rock of the main canyon when he awoke, the stars were swiftly vanishing, melting in the blue. For a moment he lazily watched the narrow ribbon of crimson widen as the sun lifted, his senses hazy in sleep, until his brain seemed suddenly to clear. Beside him, curled and tucked up beneath a blanket, lay Mary Burrows, sleeping softly and quietly as a child.
About the glowing fire that sent up a thin column of smoke, steady, intensely blue in the still air of early morning, lay Thora, next to Mary. Then came Jackson and the three riders. All of these slept like logs, though Jackson had a wry neck and two of the riders more serious and painful casualties, in a torn scalp and a riddled arm.
But Sheridan was very wide awake. To banish sleep and find the slimsy lady, the Girl of Ghost Mountain, close beside him, to feel his heart beat swift and strong in the recollection of what her presence meant, of how she had guessed his danger and planned and worked a way to reach him, was a degree of exaltation that Sheridan had never known before. He bent a little towards her, forgetful of his arm, and the sudden anguish that shot through the bruised length of it brought out an involuntary
