But he saw only the page wet with blood, and the words that burned through it into his eyes; heard only the cries of women in their death-agony and the stealthy movements of the bleeding shapes behind him.

There was no ray of hope to his eye nor note of it to his ear--only the cries and the rustlings back of him, driving him out.
At last he gave his horse water, tied the bridle-rein to the horn of the saddle, headed him back over the trail to the valley and turned him loose.

Then, after a long look toward the saving green of the hills, he started off through the yielding sand, his face white and haggard but hard-set.

He was already weakened by fasting and loss of sleep, and the heat and dryness soon told upon him as the chill was warmed from the morning air.
When he had walked an hour, he felt he must stop, at least to rest.

He looked back to see how far he had come.