Between these two, where his head rested, was a pile of
soft moss freshly torn from the earth. And within reach of him was
his own kit pail filled with water.
He moved himself cautiously and raised a hand to his head. His
fingers came in contact with a bandage.
For a minute or two after that he sat without moving while his
amazed senses seized upon the significance of it all. In the first
place he was alive. But even this fact of living was less
remarkable than the other things that had happened. He remembered
the final moments of the unequal duel. His enemy had got him. And
that enemy was a woman! Moreover, after she had blown away a part
of his head and had him helpless in the sand, she had--in place of
finishing him there--dragged him to this cool nook and tied up his
wound. It was hard for him to believe, but the pail of water, the
moss behind his shoulders, the bandage, and certain visions that
were reforming themselves in his brain convinced him. A woman had
shot him. She had worked like the very devil to kill him. And
afterward she had saved him! He grinned. It was final proof that
his mind hadn't been playing tricks on him.
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