" As the words left his lips, his finger pressed
the trigger, and the quiet of the hills was broken by the sharp crack of
the rifle.
James Rutlidge's hold upon the artist slipped. For a fraction of a second,
his form half straightened and he stood nearly erect; then, as a weed cut
by the sharp scythe of a mower falls, he fell; his body whirling downward
toward the trees and rocks below. The sound of the crashing branches
mingled with the reverberating report of the shot. On the ledge, Aaron
King lay still.
The convict dropped his rifle and ran forward. Lifting the unconscious man
in his arms, he carried him a little way down the mountain, toward the
cabin; where he laid him gently on the ground. To Sibyl, who hung over the
artist in an agony of loving fear, he said hurriedly, "He'll be all right,
presently, Miss Andres. I'll fetch his coat and hat."
Running back to the ledge, he caught up the dead man's rifle, coat, and
hat, and threw them over the precipice, as he swiftly crossed for the
artist's things. Recovering his own rifle, he ran back to the girl.
"Listen, Miss Andres," said the convict, speaking quickly. "Mr. King will
be all right in a few minutes. That rifle-shot will likely bring his
friends; if not, you are safe, now, anyway.
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