and struck him down again. Then, falling upon him unmercifully, she beat his head into the hard ground until he was all torn and bleeding and could not see to scramble at her.
It was an awful experience for the girl; but she conquered her antagonist before her strength was spent. When he lay, twitching his limbs in the final throes, she staggered back to where her pony stood and there, leaning upon his neck, sobbed and shook for several minutes, while Freckles put his soft nose into her palm and nuzzled her comfortably.
"Oh, oh, Freckles! what a terrible thing!" she sobbed. "He's dead! he's dead!"
She could say nothing more, nor could she recover her self-possession for some time. Then she climbed into the saddle and turned the pony's head toward the deserted huts without once looking back at the blood-bedabbled body and the gory club.
At the camp, however, she was once more her own mistress. The fact that she must attend the sick man bolstered up her courage. She hobbled Freckles again and recovered the bucket of water. John Cox (if that was his name) raged in his fever and clutched at his precious coat, and was not quiet again until she had cooled his head and hands with the fresh water.
After that he fell into a light sleep and Ruth
