The Shadow of Crime

Winston could never afterward recall having heard any report, yet as he
stepped across the threshold a sharp flare of red fire cleft the
blackness to his left. As though this was a signal he leaped
recklessly forward, running blindly along the narrow path toward the
ore-dump. Some trick of memory led him to remember a peculiar swerve
in the trail just beneath the upper rim of the canyon. It must have
been about there that he saw the flash, and he plunged over the edge,
both hands outstretched in protection of his eyes from injury should he
collide with any obstacle in the darkness. The deep shadows blinded
him, but there was no hesitancy, some instinct causing him to feel the
urgent need of haste. Once he stumbled and fell headlong, but was as
instantly up again, bruised yet not seriously hurt. His revolver was
jerked loose from his belt, but the man never paused to search for it.
Even as he regained his feet, his mind bewildered by the shock, his
ears distinguished clearly the cry of a woman, the sound of heavy feet
crushing through underbrush. It was to his right, and he hurled
himself directly into the thick chaparral in the direction from whence
the sound came.

He knew not what new terror awaited him, what peril lurked in the path.
At that moment he cared nothing. Bareheaded, pushing desperately aside
the obstructing branches, his heart throbbing, his clothing torn, his
face white with determination, he struggled madly forward, stumbling,
creeping, fighting a passage, until he finally emerged, breathless but
resolute, into a little cove extending back into the rock wall. From
exertion and excitement he trembled from head to foot, the perspiration
dripping from his face.