Explore "The Border Legion" by Zane Grey on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
When Joan returned to consciousness she was lying half outside the opening of the cabin and above her was a drift of blue gun-smoke, slowly floating upward. Almost as swiftly as perception of that smoke came a shuddering memory. She lay still, listening. She did not hear a sound except the tinkle and babble and gentle rush of the brook. Kells was dead, then. And overmastering the horror of her act was a relief, a freedom, a lifting of her soul out of the dark dread, a something that whispered justification of the fatal deed.
She got up and, avoiding to look within the cabin, walked away. The sun was almost at the zenith. Where had the morning hours gone?