But she forgot that.

All the vanguard and the full army of wild creatures had passed by now.

She alone, the white woman, most helpless of the great creatures, stood before the terror.
She sprang out of the wagon and looked about her.

The smoke crest, black, red-shot, was coming close.

The grass here would carry it.
Perhaps yonder on the flint ridge where the cover was short--why had she not thought of that long ago?
It was half a mile, and no sure haven then.
She ran, her shawl drawn about her head--ran with long, free stride, her limbs envigored by fear, her full-bosomed body heaving chokingly.