It had happened like a flash of light, and although Helen felt, rather than heard, the shot and saw her assailant fall, she did not realize the meaning of it till a drift of powder smoke assailed her nostrils.  Even so, she experienced no shock nor horror of the sight.  On the contrary, a savage joy at the spectacle seized her and she stood still, leaning slightly forward, staring at it almost gloatingly, stood so till she heard her name called, “Helen, little sister!” and, turning, saw her brother in the window.

That which he witnessed in her face he had seen before in the faces of men locked close with a hateful death and from whom all but the most elemental passions had departed—­but he had never seen a woman bear the marks till now.  No artifice nor falsity was there, nothing but the crudest, intensest feeling, which many people live and die without knowing.  There are few who come to know the great primitive, passionate longings.  But in this black night, fighting in defence of her most sacred self, this girl’s nature had been stripped to its purely savage elements.  As Glenister had predicted, Helen at last had felt and yielded to irresistibly powerful impulse.

Glancing backward at the creature sprawled by the door, Helen went to her brother, put her arms about his neck, and kissed him.

“He’s dead?” the Kid asked her.

She nodded and tried to speak, but began to shiver and sob instead.

“Unlock the door,” he begged her.  “I’m hurt, and I must get in.”

When the Kid had hobbled into the room, she pressed him to her and stroked his matted head, regardless of his muddy, soaking garments.

“I must look at him.  He may not be badly hurt,” said the Kid.

“Don’t touch him!” She followed, nevertheless, and stood near by while her brother examined his victim.  Struve was breathing, and, discovering this, the others lifted him with difficulty to the couch.

“Something cracked in here—­ribs, I guess,” the Kid remarked, gasping and feeling his own side.  He was weak and pale, and the girl led him into the bunk-room, where he could lie down.  Only his wonderful determination had sustained him thus far, and now the knowledge of his helplessness served to prevent Helen’s collapse.

The Kid would not hear of her going for help till the storm abated or daylight came, insisting that the trails were too treacherous and that no time could be saved by doing so.  Thus they waited for the dawn.  At last they heard the wounded man faintly calling.  He spoke to Helen hoarsely.  There was no malice, only fear, in his tones: 

“I said this was my madness—­and I got what I deserved, but I’m going to die.  O God—­I’m going to die and I’m afraid.”  He moaned till the Bronco Kid hobbled in, glaring with unquenched hatred.

“Yes, you’re going to die and I did it.  Be game, can’t you?  I sha’n’t let her go for help until daylight.”