He was a black, swarthy fellow in plain leather chaps and
blue shirt. As they passed he took a long, steady aim.
"Duck!" shouted the man beside her, and dragged her down on the
seat so that his body covered hers.
A puff of wind fanned the girl's cheek.
"Near thing," her companion said coolly. He looked back at the
swarthy man and laughed softly. "Some day you'll mebbe wish you
had sent your pills straighter, Mr. Judd Morgan."
Yet a few wheel-turns and they had dipped forward out of range
among the great land waves that seemed to stretch before them
forever. The unexpected had happened, and she had achieved a
rescue in the face of the impossible.
"Hurt badly?" the girl inquired briefly, her dark-blue eyes
meeting his as frankly as those of a boy.
"No need for an undertaker. I reckon I'll survive, ma'am,"
"Where are you hit?"
"I just got a telegram from my ankle saying there was a cargo of
lead arrived there unexpected," he drawled easily.
"Hurts a good deal, doesn't it?"
"No more than is needful to keep my memory jogged up. It's a sort
of a forget-me-not souvenir. For a good boy; compliments of Mr.
Jim Henson," he explained.
Her dark glance swept him searchingly.
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