She was his sister and an Indian. She was usually merciful to animals in spite of that: merciful and kind. But now she feared for herself, and the deep nature within her flowered as it had done when she sought Pete's life. She flogged the horse till she was weary and then pulled out a little knife she carried and stabbed it through the hide just behind the saddle. It was a bitter and cruel spurring. Under the dreadful stimulus her tired horse responded and galloped furiously. But the old horse behind her was the better animal: he answered that gallop of his own accord and was emulous, eager. She heard Pete's voice, she turned and saw him creeping up to her: she saw he had the gun. She looked at him over her shoulder as they galloped: his face was dreadful to see: part of his ear was hanging loose: the blood was on his neck and shoulder. She saw him open his mouth: he was speaking: telling her to stop! But he had killed her man! She believed it! She would not stop. Now he crept further up to her, and her old horse was urged on by the following thunder of near hoofs. She turned from her pursuer: he saw nothing of her face but the white cloth. She heard him cursing awfully. He called her foul names: he screamed insults. Though she kept her eyes upon the road she saw dimly that he was ranging up alongside her. "Stop," cried Pete. She answered on her horse with the quirt: she had dropped her knife a mile back. Behind the saddle there were blood marks. She was in a whirlwind: the sun burnt: the dust rose: she saw cattle run across the road. Beyond that slope Kamloops lay: through a fold of one of the terraces she saw a patch of the lake away to the east: yonder was the crystalline and azure Thompson. In front, the dark stained hill beyond the river and beyond Kamloops rose more clearly. Then she heard nothing of what he said: she saw his furious face, saw the blood again, the flapping cartilage of his ear, and then she saw him lift the gun. This then meant death! But when the explosion burst upon her like a blow, she felt the horse throw up his head, and knew that they were both falling. She saw, even as she fell, the one clear picture: the horse with his bleeding neck outstretched and his legs failing: the white road: the radiant prairie: the tall brown trees: the splendid river. Then the earth rose at her: she pitched headlong, and rolled over motionless. On the road the wounded horse lay, lifting up his head as one aghast at death. He made no sound: the blood poured from the burst arteries and his head sank back. Pete never looked behind him as he threw the gun away and went at a merciless gallop for the last level mile before the uplands opened on the valley of the Lake. He cursed his sister and Ned Quin and himself. How could he get away?