There was one chance in a thousand; one faint, infinitesimal hope; one tenuous, almost incredible possibility.
He had been retreating so long and so swiftly that Falcon must think him beaten. If, now, he should suddenly attack
Falcon's point touched Lachlan's shoulder, a moment later pricked his bare forearm. This, then, was the end: he had waited too long.
Lachlan laughed, braced himself for the shock, flung himself in the teeth of that whirlwind assault, lunged, and lunged again.
A moment they stood like battling stallions, thrusting, stabbing, clashing steel against steel. Then Falcon staggered backward, stood swaying, fell face downward in the grass.
Presently Lachlan was aware of a voice behind him speaking his name—the voice of Jolie Stanwicke. He turned his head slowly.
She was standing, clad in her stained and faded buckskins, near where the trail came down into the open. Her eyes were wide and staring and her face in the white moonlight was like that of a ghost. Behind her, where the trail entered the meadow, stood Mr. O'Sullivan.
She came forward slowly, and Lachlan walked toward her, while O'Sullivan ran quickly to the spot where Falcon lay motionless. She spoke no word, but she lifted her face as they met and Lachlan took her
