The Noxious Gift
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“Look behind—once more,” the woman gasped, stooping a little from the saddle.
Even with that slight movement she swayed and almost fell. The man’s hand supported her—he only knew with what an effort.
“There is no one in sight,” he muttered, but he did not look. His heart was sick with the accumulated fear of these awful months.
They stumbled on again—a weary, heart-sickening procession. The woman’s eyes were half closed, her cheeks were as pale as death, her black hair was powdered with dust, her clothing soiled and worn. She rode a small Mexican pony, itself in the last stage of exhaustion. By her side, on foot, with his left hand locked in the reins, the man staggered along. In her face was the white numbness of despair, the despair which takes no count of
