Yonder then, lay the trail--but could she know which way?
If she turned her head she would lose the direction.

She kept her eyes fixed upon the last point of the compass from which she had heard the car distinctly, and taking the muzzle of the revolver in her hand, endeavored to scratch a mark in the sand to give her the direction later by the sense of touch.

She laid the pistol itself at the upper end of the little furrow, pointing toward the road which she had left.
Sinking down, she resigned herself to what she felt must soon be the end.
The chill of the mountain night was coming on.

The whispering in the pines grew less.

Vaguely she sensed that the sun was low, that soon twilight would come.