and sang upon iron and steel. The Royle girl slid down into the ditch. "Hit?" called Calvin. "They hit you?"
"I hit him," she cried. "I shot him!"
"They hit you?"
"They didn't! I shot him; I shot him over!"
Calvin's pulses pricked and swelled wildly with her triumph. It might be for only the minute, but she had shot one gunman; the next minute others might come from the car.
They fired into the wreck, but no one else visited the edge of the ditch; no one else left the car except, it seemed, to drag into it the man who had advanced to the ditch and who, after being shot, had been left to get himself back to the car, coughing.
The transmission grated and the car moved away.
Calvin's strained muscles relaxed, and he lay feeling the weight less crushing upon him. He was pinned by his shoulders and stabs of pain centered in his shoulders; but his head was clear, and his hands and feet could move. Neski, held under the steering wheel, coughed; Neski's ribs were broken probably, Calvin thought; but Neski remained conscious. With much difficulty he found cartridges to reload his revolver and handed them to the Royle girl, praising her meanwhile.
She made no reply, and Calvin spoke to her sharply, imagining that she might be fainting. "I'm listening," she told him. "Are they coming back?"
How she responded to the thrill of danger, Calvin thought; how she had risen to fight; how she had taken her triumph, though in the next instant she might have been killed.
"You got one sure?" asked Neski.
"I shot him over."
"Nobody'll be back," said Neski. "Not them. They'll
