Far back upon the road the cattle ringed round Mary's body and the body of the horse, and a million flies blackened the pool of blood and drank against the dust that soaked it up. The cattle to leeward, smelling the horror of a spilt life, tossed their heads uneasily and challenged strange death, that horror of which their instincts spoke to them. Some to windward came closer and blew at the flies. They rose in black swarms and settled again. From a distance other cattle marched to the wavering ring about this wonder. Some came running. One of the inside steers touched Mary's body with his horn. She moaned and lifted her hand. The steer ran backwards, snorting, backing on others, who horned each other angrily. Then the steers crept up again to Mary and blew at the dust in which she lay. But this time she rose to a sitting position, and the ring of cattle with their lowered heads retreated from her. She wondered where she was, and how she came to be there. Then she saw the dead horse, and the gun that a cow smelt uneasily. She remembered that Pete had killed Ned, and that he had perhaps tried to kill her. She scrambled to her feet and the cattle jostled each other to get away from her. She staggered as she stood: for she had no strength, and all desire of life had gone out of her. And with that there came a sickness of the notion of revenge: it would only be trying to revenge herself on the inexorable destiny which was hers. Pete had killed her man and had gone. She would go back to her dead. Overhead the sun burnt as she staggered on the road, the long, endless, wearying road, so like to life. She went at a foot pace, and the miles were weary endless spaces without hope. For her man was dead, and Pete was a cruel madman, and there was nothing left for her. Yet still she walked, like some painful hurt creature returning to its lair. She ached in every limb: her head seemed splitting: the physical torture of her being dulled her mind. And as it seemed to her only the sun of all things moved swiftly. It was drawing on towards evening when she came to her house and stood outside the door. Her knees trembled: she clutched at the latch and door-post to prevent herself falling. Inside was her man dead: her man who had been so good and so cruel. She began to weep and opened the door, letting the westering sunlight in. The next moment she screamed dreadfully, for the place where she had left him was vacant! "Oh, Ned, Ned!" she cried in a most lamentable voice. And yet within her murdered heart there sprang a faint poor flower of hope even as she cried. If he had been moved was it not that someone had come and taken him away? Then--then, oh, God, perhaps he was not dead! Her brain turned: she reeled again and clutched at the table and held to it. "My God, listen to me, be merciful, where is my man, the man I love?"