He was the animal that had clawed
himself free. Further proof of his aberration stood out in the action of
sheathing his gun; he made the motion to do so, but he only dropped it in the
grass.
Sight of that dropped gun broke Lucy's spell of horror, which had kept her
silent but for one scream. Suddenly her blood leaped like fire in her veins.
She measured the distance to Sage King. Joel was turning. Then Lucy darted at
the King, reached him, and, leaping, was half up on him when he snorted and
jumped, not breaking her hold, but keeping her from getting up. Then iron
hands clutched her and threw her, like an empty sack, to the grass.
Joel Creech did not say a word. His distorted face had the deriding scorn of a
superior being. Lucy lay flat on her back, watching him. Her mind worked
swiftly. She would have to fight for her body and her life. Her terror had
fled with her horror. She was not now afraid of this demented boy. She meant
to fight, calculating like a cunning Indian, wild as a trapped wildcat.
Lucy lay perfectly still, for she knew she had been thrown near the spot where
the gun lay.
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