Agnes had reached the tent, where she stood with her hand on the flap, turning a hasty look behind her, when a shot out of the dark from the direction of the river-bank struck her ears with a suddenness and a portent which seemed to carry the pain of death. She was facing that way; she saw the flash of it; she saw Jerry Boyle leap with lithe agility, as if springing from the scourge of flames, and sling his pistol from the hostler under his coat. In his movement there was an admirable quickness, rising almost to the dignity of beauty in the rapidity with which he adjusted himself to meet this sudden exigency. In half the beat of a heart, it seemed, he had fired. Out of the dark came another leap of flame, another report. Boyle walked directly toward the point from which it came, firing as he went. No answer came after his second shot. Agnes pressed her hand over her eyes to shut out the sight, fearing to see him fall, her heart rising up to accuse her. She had forgotten to warn him! She had forgotten! Boyle's voice roused her. There was a dry harshness in it, a hoarseness as of one who has gone long without water on the lips. "Bring that lantern here!" he commanded. She did not stand to debate it, but took up the light and hurried to the place where he stood. A man lay at his feet, his long hair tossed in disorder, his long coat spread out like a black blotch upon the ground. Boyle took the lantern and bent over the victim of his steady arm, growled in his throat, and bent lower. The man's face was partly hidden by the rank grass in which he lay. Boyle turned it up to the light with his foot and straightened his back with a grunt of disdain. "Huh! _That_ rabbit!" said he, giving her back the light. It did not require that gleam upon the white face to tell Agnes that the victim was the polemical sheep-herder, whose intention had been steadier than his aim. Boyle hesitated a moment as if to speak to her, but said nothing before he turned and walked away. "You've killed him!" she called after him sharply. "Don't go away and leave him here like this!" "He's not dead," said Boyle. "Don't you hear him snort?" The man's breathing was indeed audible, and growing louder with each labored inspiration. "Turn him over on his face," directed Boyle. "There's blood in his throat." "Will you go for Smith?" she asked, kneeling beside the wounded man. "He's coming; I can hear the sauerkraut jolt in him while he's half a mile away. If anybody comes looking for me on account of this--coroner or--oh, anybody--I'll be down the river about a quarter below the stage-ford. I'll wait there a day longer to hear from you, and this is my last word."