Creech howled like a dog. He beat her. He jerked and wrestled. Then
he lifted her, and the swing of her body tore the flesh loose from his arm and
broke her hold. Lucy half rose, crawled, plunged for the gun. She got it, too,
only to have Creech kick it out of her hand. The pain of that brutal kick was
severe, but when he cut her across the bare back with the rope she shrieked
out. Supple and quick, she leaped up and ran. In vain! With a few bounds he
had her again, tripped her up. Lucy fell over the dead body of the father. Yet
even that did not shake her desperate nerve. All the ferocity of a desert-bred
savage culminated in her, fighting for death.
Creech leaned down, swinging the coiled rope. He meant to do more than lash
her with it. Lucy's hands flashed up, closed tight in his long hair. Then with
a bellow he jerked up and lifted her sheer off the ground. There was an
instant in which Lucy felt herself swung and torn; she saw everything as a
whirling blur; she felt an agony in her wrists at which Creech was clawing.
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