As they went, now running, now falling into a quick walk, then running again, nettles stung their ankles; gooseberry branches tore their swinging hands; willows lashed their faces. But terror calloused, and they knew no hurts. Marylyn stepped on something soft and moving--she only increased her pace. On, on, they sped, stumbling blindly, gasping with open mouth--yet persevering. The strain told first on the younger girl. So far, her strength had been unnatural--born of the terror that made her unconscious of any wound. It did not long endure. Before three miles had been travelled, as she sank in a shallow pool to wet her lips, it utterly failed her. She could not rise, and pleaded faintly for rest. "Just a minute, Dallas, please--I can't go--my side hurts." Dallas helped her through a hindering weave of pond-weeds and lilies, and laid her upon some marsh-grass beyond. Meanwhile, Charley stole back a short distance. But the respite was brief, for he returned straightway and twitched at their dresses, when the elder girl lifted the younger to her feet, whispering encouragement. "Try again, honey. You got your breath. Try again." Once more they pressed forward. The lightning had ceased. With a last grumble, and a scatter of drops, the clouds were pulling apart. Here and there a few stars shone. These thinned the darkness considerably, and, at a point where the coulee shallowed, Dallas was able dimly to see the toiling shapes ahead. Marylyn was wavering. "Spunky little sister!" urged the elder girl. Lifting the rifle to her left shoulder, she came alongside to give the support of an arm. "Where's the cartridge belt?" she whispered. "Heavy,"--panted the other--"dropped it." And now despite Dallas' aid, Marylyn straggled weakly. Another mile, and with scarcely a sigh of warning, she sank again, exhausted. "Charley," called Dallas. The Squaw joined them. "You take one arm--that's it." She took the other. Thus they proceeded. Marylyn was almost a dead weight. When the channel was clogged with rocks, she could not put one jaded foot before the other, and was fairly dragged. On clear sandy stretches she did better. Complete collapse was near, however; her head was swinging upon her breast; she prattled brokenly. Finally Dallas stopped. "Hide--hide," she counselled between breaths, "a dark place----" Ignoring the advice, the outcast thrust his bow and arrows into her hands; then squatting before Marylyn, he seized her wrist, drew her, limp and half-dead, upon his back, and staggered on. "Hold to Charley, dear," begged Dallas. "He's carrying you pick-a-back." The younger girl murmured gratefully, and locked her hands beneath The Squaw's chin. This left his arms free to part a path through the thickets of burweed and plantain that choked the defile, and, for fully a half-hour, he kept a good jog. But, well worn and hampered as he was, he began then to wobble.