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 Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

DA NA A ROS
b l ac k
c a n va s

WARNING
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

D ANA AROS
DARK
B L ACK C AN VA S
ROADS
 Black Canvas
Dark Roads: Book #5

Written by Dana Aros

Copyright © 2017 by Abdo Consulting Group, Inc.

Published by EPIC Press™

PO Box 398166
Minneapolis, MN 55439

All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America.

International copyrights reserved in all countries.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without
written permission from the publisher. EPIC Press™ is trademark
and logo of Abdo Consulting Group, Inc.

Cover design by Candice Keimig and Kali VanZuilen

Images for cover art obtained from iStockPhoto.com
Edited by Ryan Hume

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Aros, Dana, author.

Title: Black canvas / by Dana Aros.
Description: Minneapolis, MN : EPIC Press, [2017] | Series: Dark roads
Summary: In this map-your-destiny book, you make the decisions as Kelly Anne, who has
been on various medications for her bipolar disorder since she was fourteen. Now a senior
in high school and off your medication, you struggle to express yourself to old friends who
fear you or don’t believe you; to your dad, whose alcoholism keeps him distant; and to your
stepmom, who wants to control you. You must find normalcy again by learning to navigate
the roadblocks of your own mind.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015959183 | ISBN 9781680762600 (lib. bdg.) |
ISBN 9781680762747 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Manic-depressive illness—Fiction. | Mental illness—Fiction. | High schools—
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

Fiction. | Identity—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction. | Interpersonal relations—Fiction. |

Young adult fiction.
Classification: DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015959183

EPICPRESS.COM
 For Rachel, Anna, Alli, and Allison,
for their friendship and patience
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.
 1
D R.POWELL WATCHES YOU LIKE YOU’RE A SCIENCE EXPERIMENT, HER
blonde hair pulled back tight in a bun. You look
at the human body poster on the door instead. If
you split the body into halves, they would mirror
each other, right down to the teeth. Of course, each
one would only be half a person.
“We’ve been easing you off the lithium tablets,
so you should be good to go when your prescription
comes in the next two days.”
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

“Lamictal and Depakote.” You pull the hem

of your dress over the side of the exam table and
shiver at the wax paper crinkling. It shouldn’t be so
hard to say it. You’ve been trying to find the right

5
 words since you realized over the last month that
lithium makes you feel flat like paper, and the pain
in your stomach and your head makes you want to
vomit, but the room falls silent until your stepmom
speaks up.
“Are you sure, Dr. Powell?” Lori’s voice sounds
younger than she looks, too light. She takes off her
sunglasses and gently folds them before setting them
in her lap. “How do we know she needs the medica-
tion at all? It’s been two years. She’s grown up since
then.”
“It’s not teen angst, Mrs. Stafford. It’s not going
away.” Lori shuts her mouth and looks down.
Say something. You should agree with her,
but if you tell her you’re done with medica-
tion, Dr. Powell will only shut you down. You
wish you could leave them both alone to talk
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

about you. You’re only making Lori feel guilty by

looking like you’re siding against her.
“Or we can keep trying lithium at different dos-
ages, or even electroconvulsive therapy. Mr. Stafford

6
 thought that might be a good option as well. If not,
he really encourages you to take this medication,
Kelly Anne. He’s called me multiple times.”
You buy yourself more time to think because
lithium makes your head throb so badly you can’t
concentrate. You don’t want medication or any-
thing else. You don’t want anything to do with your
fucked-up brain. You suddenly feel trapped.
“What’s wrong?” Lori asks.
It takes an extra beat to hear anything anyone
says, like someone’s holding a pillow over your ears.
You can feel it happening, but you can’t stop it.
“Talk it out, Kelly Anne.”
You try to do the things Dr. Powell taught you
to calm down—roll your shoulders back, tense and
relax your muscles, inhale seven seconds, exhale
eleven, but you can’t make yourself hold it in long
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

enough. Instead, you look at the human body

poster. Cut off the right arm and the left leg of the
girl in the poster, take off her head—that’s what this
medication feels like.

7
 Dr. Powell looks at her watch. “I’m sorry, I have
another appointment—”
You cut her off. “I feel off balance. I feel like a
body without a head.” You try to swallow down the
shakiness in your voice, but it stays anyway. “Lori’s
right, I don’t need new meds.”
You’re almost relieved, but Dr. Powell answers
quickly. “It’s probably from lithium withdrawal.
Depakote alone hasn’t worked in the past. So, hope-
fully, Lamictal and Depakote together will help stop
these psychological side effects.”
“You’re still early in your diagnosis,” Lori says,
almost nervously.
Two years isn’t early. You should feel in control
by now.
“Exactly.” Dr. Powell smiles and stands up, but
you know Lori means you’re probably normal after
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

all—just blowing everything out of proportion.

Dr. Powell is finally looking at you, but you glance
at the door again. “Have patience, Kelly Anne.
Trust your medication.”

8
 While Lori shakes the doctor’s hand, you throw
open the door, wincing at the antiseptic smell.
You were stupid to think today would be any dif-
ferent. You finally have the guts to say it, and they
won’t listen. Now you have to endure another year
on medication that inevitably fails to help while
making things worse. You’re outside before she can
even sign you out.
You lean against the hood of her white Honda,
trying to focus only on the breeze rolling over your
shoulders, and seeping through your purple tights.
You pull your scarf tighter. It might snow this year.
Maybe it’ll freeze the world long enough for you to
catch up to everyone.
You look away from the Bridges Hospital sign
and focus on the wall of pine trees in front of you
instead. The town is mostly dense shadows of for-
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

ests—a mix of evergreens and leaves fading slowly

from green to yellow to orange—pushing houses
away from each other. If you felt like channeling
your artistic side, you would list the colors exactly,

9
 memorize the direction the light’s coming from, and
choose oil or acrylic paint, but you don’t. You watch
the tree limbs cross each other and cross back for so
long your eyes tear up from the breeze. It works at
least a little better than counting to seven.
“I’m talking to you, Kelly Anne.”
You look behind you and see Lori holding her
key fob loosely in her fingers. “What?”
You jump when the car beeps. Lori walks to the
driver’s side, heels clacking. “I said if you run off
like that again during an appointment—”
“Then what?” You slide into the passenger’s seat
while she starts the car. “Dad will drive me?”
You didn’t mean it to sound so hostile. You
watch her face for any change of expression, but she
stays calm.
“I would have your dad drive you, sweetie, you
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

know I would, but he started drinking at ten this

morning.” She pulls out onto Oak Street, which
connects the doctor’s office on Main Street with
your house on the other side of this tiny town.

10
 Lori’s face appears in the rearview mirror, and
she runs her fingers through her hair. You catch
glimpses of red nail polish through the black. Her
bangs hang so low over her eyes you could almost
pretend she’s Asian like your real mom was. Both
of your mother’s parents, your grandparents, were
Chinese, but when they brought her to America,
she tried to keep herself away from that side of her-
self—and them—as much as possible. You want to
tell her that hair color doesn’t match her skin tone
or her blue eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you say instead. She’s stuck around
for four years at least, working two retail jobs to
help your dad keep up with the bills. Maybe you
don’t care much for Lori, but your dad needs her.
“He’ll be better in the spring. Just be patient.”
She doesn’t say a word the whole drive to your
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

house, which only makes you feel worse. She passes

pine trees trailing up into the hills behind the office
buildings of town, until you get to the little brown
box across from the freeway gas station. She parks

11
 behind your dad’s black truck with Bridges Repair
Co. stenciled in white across both sides. Your dad
works sporadically as a mechanic.
You step inside silently, listening for mumbling
from the tiny living room or for drunken screa-
ming from the backyard, but all you hear is the
TV. When you step around the wall, you find your
dad sitting quietly on the couch, the only piece of
furniture in the living room besides the TV and the
coffee table. He’s half-hidden by a bamboo plant
Lori got last year. In the places he’s not balding,
your dad’s hair is grey, and his glasses are about
to slip off his nose. The commercials on TV have
Mandarin Chinese subtitles, though it’s been seven
years since your mom died on the first of December.
Car accident.
He jumps up when you both walk in the door,
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

but his eyes are on Lori. He puts one finger up and

races around the kitchen wall before coming back
with a bouquet of purple daisies. Every couple
of weeks it’s a different flower. He hands them to

12
 her proudly, standing close. Lori rolls her eyes, but
smiles as she takes them from him. “This doesn’t
make up for this morning.”
He could drive drunk to get those for Lori, but
not drive you to your appointment? You can’t make
yourself say it as he kisses Lori briefly on the lips.
They met at a grocery store—nothing special about
it except that he was lonely—but they fit together.
They’re both white. You haven’t even had your
first kiss yet—seeing them do it always makes you
uncomfortable.
“Hey, Dad?” You’ve been trying to ask for weeks,
but you just couldn’t make yourself interrupt them.
Now you’re out of time. Your voice feels weak.
“Can I take Lori’s car to the Fall Gallery Opening
tomorrow?”
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

“Why don’t you have a friend take you?” Lori

asks.
You look away before you overthink it. Being
alone doesn’t hurt as much as everyone knowing

13
 you’re lonely. Your dad immediately gives her a sour
look before turning to you. “You’re not going.”
“Of course she can go, Mark,” Lori says quietly
before looking at you again. “That’s great, Kelly
Anne. Get back out there.”
“Are you sure you can handle driving?” your dad
asks, grasping at straws now. Lori rolls her eyes.
“You’re changing medications.”
“Dad, I don’t want medication.”
You almost flinch at the look he gives you. You
didn’t mean to say it out loud. It just happened.
“Remember the last time you were off meds, Kelly
Anne?” he says, trying hard to keep his voice soft.
“We don’t want a repeat of freshman year.” Your
dad rubs his eyes under his glasses. “Lori, I told Dr.
Powell—”
“Mark, how do we know she really needs medi-
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

cation?” Lori breaks in, looking between the two of

you carefully.
Your dad looks like he’s about to burst. “You’re
siding with her?”

14
 “Trust me,” you say quickly. You feel your heart
rate picking up. You have leverage now. “The medi-
cation I’ve been on for the past two years hasn’t
helped. I still have episodes and they’re worse
because of the physical pain. Please. If I’m out of it
at the gallery—”
“You’re not getting out of taking your medica-
tion with some excuse about the gallery.” He sits on
his side of the couch again, facing away from both
of you. “End of discussion.”
“It’s not an excuse!” you say, stepping forward.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”
They’re both staring at you, which means you spoke
too angrily. You lower your voice. “I’m sorry.”
You need to go to that gallery opening. You know
Mrs. Lowe, the gallery owner, is going to be there
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

tomorrow to give her seasonal speech. You can talk

to her one-on-one about having you as an artist for
the Winter Gallery Opening, and then she can write
you a letter of recommendation for art school. She’s

15
 the ticket to the rest of your life, but all you can say
is, “I’ll let you guys talk about it.”
“We don’t need to talk,” your dad says loudly
enough for you to have to squeeze your eyes closed
and focus to keep from exploding at him.
“Wait, Kelly Anne. I found something for you.
Maybe it’ll help with this.”
“I told you to leave it alone, Lori,” your dad says,
exasperated.
“Shush. It’s a—how do you say it—bagua.”
You’re already halfway to your room. “Let me go get
it. Hey, don’t you want to know what it is?”
You slam your bedroom door closed, regretting
it almost instantly because your head is about to
burst, and even slamming a door feels too aggres-
sive. You thought all you had to do was tell him
what you wanted. Turns out he doesn’t care.
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

You should listen to him. He’s always taken care

of you. When you lean against the door, you hear
your dad and Lori arguing, and it almost makes
your stomach hurt. They never argue—not like that.

16
 You didn’t know they’d feel this way about your
medication. You put your hand on the doorknob to
go out and tell them to stop fighting, but then you
let go of it. Being in control for once both terrifies
and excites you at the same time. Maybe it’s a good
thing Lori finally realizes your dad isn’t good for
her—his dates and flowers and surprise kisses are all
just for show. She can stop pretending to be your
mom too. You jump when Lori’s voice gets even
louder, and put in headphones quickly.
Hanging on your wall above your bed are
copies of paintings by Van Gogh and Kandinsky
you printed off the Internet. Edvard Munch’s The
Scream flutters in the breeze from the open window.
You almost trip over the paint tubes and news-
paper cluttering your floor. Carefully, you hide the
lithium bottle in a ball of scrap paper and throw
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

it in your waste basket. You won’t lose the gallery

opportunity because you’re throwing up pills. This
might be your last chance before you have to apply
to colleges.

17
 You pull down the ladder from the hallway ceil-
ing to climb up to the attic where you throw your
old stuff. The first week they put you on meds,
after the Kelly Anne Thing freshman year, you
painted Depakote as a black wolf crawling out of
that ceiling. Behind it is the painting you did last
week, Lithium, a flat, gray landscape in only two
shades.
You hold the paintbrush in your hand, over the
desk by the window, but you haven’t been able to
paint anything decent for the past four months on
lithium. The back of your throat tightens up, and
your mouth sweetens with acid from the nausea.
You put the paint brush back on the desk and
take pictures of some of your old paintings with
your phone, before climbing back down the stairs
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

to your room. That’ll have to be enough to show

Mrs. Lowe.

18
 You throw up the last of the lithium the next
morning. Your dad looks like he’s been sitting on
the couch all night. He’s staring at the TV and
pretending he didn’t hear you pacing your room
to tire yourself out enough to sleep. You sit on the
floor, leaning back against the couch by his legs.
You wonder if Lori knows he’s been drinking out
here for the past couple nights. You found a bottle
of antidepressants in the drawer of the coffee table a
few months ago.
“Annie,” he says, sounding like a totally differ-
ent person now. Hearing your mom’s name makes
you freeze, but it doesn’t call up any images of
her helping you paint or holding hands with your
dad—only one memory of when you hid under
the bed covers the day of the funeral, trying not to
hyperventilate. Everything feels flat like a collage.
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

Maybe the meds mess with your memory.

It takes you a minute to say something. Ever
since your mom died it’s like you’re both still in
mourning. You rarely speak to each other. You pull

19
 your knees up to your chest. “Do you want to come
to the gallery with me?”
“Apparently neither of you is budging.” His
voice comes out rough. “If you’re going, you should
have Lori take you. It’s safer.”
“Are you guys okay?”
“It was just one fight,” he says quietly, but you
can hear him slurring. You keep your eyes on the
TV. “We’re okay.”
It’s just a bad morning. Lori would say he’s
under a shadow.
You spend the day watching TV with him.
He puts on old black- and- white horror films
because he knows you like them. Being med-free
will hit you soon. You just don’t know when or
how. Lori is off working one of her retail jobs.
Halfway through Night of the Living Dead, you
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

catch yourself watching the clock like you can make

time pass more quickly by urging it on. You fidget
with your short black hair touching your neck, feel-
ing the fog lift with every second that passes. It’s

20
 what both you and Lori really want—but the truth
is you’re scared. Your heart is beating faster. You
inhale to seven, exhale to eleven for fifteen minutes
before you feel a little calmer.
A low rumble getting louder and louder—Lori’s
car—sends shivers down your spine. Lithium is
gone, the gallery is ten minutes away, and you feel
awake for the first time in months. It’s like being
soaked in yellow light, from your skull to your toes
in perfect symmetry. You wish you knew if this is
how everyone feels all the time, but you’re not sure.
Lori hands you the keys carefully, forcing that
smile.
“You okay to drive? How do you feel?”
You try to nod reassuringly, but you’re jittery.
Maybe you should tell her you’re shaking, but then
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

she won’t let you go. Besides, it’s not a bad feeling.
“The lithium withdrawals are just putting you
under a shadow,” she says, frowning.
Maybe you’re too good at pretending. Or you’re

21
 still invisible after all. This is more like a glow than
a shadow.
“What are shadows?”
You know what she wants you to say, so you say
it because you need her car. You’ve said it a hundred
times in the past. “Temporary.”
The key in your hand feels like power. You drive
fast, exhilarated. You feel normal good—not out-of-
control good—as you step outside and walk toward
the white lights of McHolland’s Open Door Gallery
at the end of Main Street. It’s the only art museum
in Bridges, and probably the most high-end place in
this whole town.
There’s no reason to be scared of this. You
proved your dad wrong just by making it here.
You just hope they aren’t worrying too much.
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

You pull open the glass double doors, flinching

as a man passes by too closely. Half of them are
dressed up in suits and dresses—the other half are
the people who walked in off the street in jeans and

22
 casual shirts. You hope your dress is okay, but it
suddenly feels too flowery.
The art is beautiful: a fuzzy, impressionis-
tic painting of a kid and her mom in black ink, a
hyperrealistic painting of a foot stepping into water,
and an enormous painting of a tree made entirely in
swirls of warm colors on the back wall. You’re not
even worthy to look at it, let alone add your art to
the gallery, but your adrenaline calls on you to stand
up to the challenge. You climb up the steps, pass-
ing through the mazelike rooms carefully, avoiding
everyone’s eyes, in case they can tell you’re elated.
On the third floor a metal, mirrored sculpture hangs
from the ceiling, taking up the entire space.
You look over the edge of the third floor balcony
at the foyer on the first floor. If you jumped, you’d
Copyright © 2016. EPIC Press. All rights reserved.

land in a spot so perfect the suicide could only be

considered performance art. You wonder if your dad
and Lori are fighting about how ungrateful you are
right now, for everything they do just to keep you

23
Other documents randomly have
different content
 With a sigh almost of relief Florian found himself alone. He set down the
sputtering candle, and turned to fasten the door. It was without a lock, and
secured only by a latch, by which it could be opened from the outside as
well as within.

On making this startling discovery, Florian's heart glowed with

indignation and growing alarm! He felt himself trapped!

CHAPTER XX.

BAFFLED!

The room was small, low-ceiled, and its only furniture was a table, chair,
and truckle-bed—all obviously of Dutch construction—and, unless he could
find some means to secure his door, he resolved to remain awake till dawn.
The only window in the room overlooked the roof of the stable where the
dead horse lay. The sash was loose, and shook in the night wind, and he
could see the bright and, to him, new constellations glittering in the
southern sky.

Florian contrived to secure the door by placing the chair on the floor as a
wedge or barrier between it and the bedstead, on the mattress of which—
though not very savoury in appearance—he cast himself, for he was weary,
worn, and felt that there was an absolute necessity for husbanding his
strength, as he knew not what might be before him, so he extinguished the
candle.

Something in the general aspect and bearing of the man Josh Jarrett, and
in those of the woman, with her efforts to intoxicate him, and something,
too, in his general surroundings and isolated situation—for the few
scattered houses of Elandsbergen were all far apart—together with the
memory of the prying face he had seen at the window, at the very moment
he was picking up the gold, all served to put Florian on his guard; thus he
lay down without undressing, and, longing only for daylight, grasped ever
and anon the butt of his pistol.

For some time past he had been unused to the luxury of even a truckle-
bed or other arrangements for repose than his grey greatcoat and
ammunition blanket, with a knapsack for a pillow; hence, despite his keen
anxiety, he must have dropped asleep, for how long he knew not; but he
suddenly started up as the sound of voices below came to his ear, and the
full sense of his peculiar whereabouts rushed on him.

Voices! They were coarse and deep, but not loud—voices of persons
talking in low and concentrated tones in the room beneath, separated from
him only by the ill-fitting boarding of the floor, between the joints of which
lines of light were visible, and one bright upward flake, through a hole from
which a knot had dropped out.

'Curse him, he's but a boy; I could smash the life out of him by one blow
of my fist!' he heard his host, Josh Jarrett, say.

Others responded to this, but in low, stealthy, and husky tones. Certain
that some mischief with regard to himself was on the tapis. Florian crept
softly to the orifice in the floor, and looked down. Round a dirty and sloppy
table, covered with drinking-vessels, pipes and tobacco-pouches, bottles of
squareface and Cape smoke, were Josh Jarrett and three other ruffians,
digger-like fellows, with Nan among them, all drinking; and a vile-looking
quintette they were, especially the woman, with her hair all dishevelled
now, and her face inflamed by that maddening compound known as Cape
smoke.

'When I was ass enough to be in the Queen's service,' said Jarrett with a
horrible imprecation, 'these 'ere blooming officers and non-comms. led me a
devil of a life; they said it was my own fault that I was always drunk and in
the mill. Be that as it may, I've one of the cursed lot upstairs, and I'll sarve
him out for what they made me undergo, cuss 'em. One will answer my
purpose as well as another. Nan, you did your best to screw him, but he was
wary—infernally wary. Blest if I don't think the fellow is a Scotsman after
all, for all his English lingo.'
 'Yes, he did shirk his liquor,' hiccupped the amiable Nan; 'you should
have drugged it, Josh.'

'But then we didn't know that he had all this chink about him.'

'That must be ours,' growled a fellow who had not yet spoken, but was
prodding the table with a knife he had drawn from his belt; 'we'll give him a
through ticket to the other world—one with the down train.'

'And no return,' added Nan, laughing.

Florian felt beads of perspiration on his brow; he was one against five—
entrapped, baited, done to death—and if he did not appear at headquarters
with the fatal money, what would be thought of him but that he had deserted
with it, and his name would be branded as that of a coward and robber.

Dulcie! The thought of Dulcie choked him, but it nerved him too.

Another truculent-looking fellow now came in, making five men in all.

'He has money galore on him—Nan saw the gold—money in a canvas

bag. How comes he, a sergeant, to have all this in his grab, unless he stole
it?' said Jarrett, in explanation to the new-comer.

'Of course he stole it—it's regimental money, and evidently he is

deserting with it,' said the other, who was no doubt, like Jarrett, a Queen's
bad bargain also; for he added, 'What the devil do Cardwell's short-service
soldiers care about their chances of pension or promotion—that's the reason
he has the bag of gold; so why shouldn't we make it ours? It is only
dolloping a knife into him, and then burying him out in the veldt before
daylight. Even if he was traced here, who is to be accountable for a
deserter?'

And this practical ruffian proceeded at once to put a finer edge and point
upon his long bowie knife.

'You forget that he has a revolver,' said Nan.

 'I don't,' said Jarrett; 'but he ain't likely to use it in his sleep, especially
when we pin him by the throat.'

He was but one against five armed and reckless desperadoes; and there
was the woman, too, whose hands were ready for evil work. The stair that
led to his room was narrow—so much so that there was but space for one
on a step. The lower or outer door he knew to be securely locked and
bolted. The window of his room, we have said, overlooked the lean-to roof
of the stable, where he knew that two horses were in stall—a sure means of
escape could he reach one; but the door, he was aware, was locked, and the
key in possession of the Kaffir groom.

He was maddened by the thought that his barbarous and obscure death
would brand him with a double disgrace; and death is more than ever hard
when suffered at the hands of cowards.

'What is the use of all this blooming talk?' said one, starting from the
table; 'let us set about the job at once!'

'Look you,' said Jarrett, 'if roused he'll perhaps try to escape by the
stable-roof, so while you fellows go up the stair, I go round to the back of
the house and cut off his retreat.'

'The stable-roof,' thought Florian, 'my only chance lies that way.'

He opened the window at the very moment that stealthy steps sounded
on the wooden stair, and a red light streamed under the door, which their
felon hands failed to force, so firmly was the chair wedged between it and
the bed. He slid down the stable-roof, and dropped safely on the ground, to
be faced by Josh Jarrett, who came rushing on, knife in hand, but Florian
shot him down, firing two chambers into his very teeth, and then he sprang
away like a hare out into the open veldt, leaving the ruffian wallowing in
his blood.

He knew not and cared not in what direction he ran at first, as he could
hear the oaths and imprecations of his pursuers, over whom his youth,
lightness, and activity gave him an advantage; but after a time red-dawn
began to streak the eastern sky, and he knew that was the direction which, if
he was spared, would take him to the bank of the Buffalo River.

He continued to run at a good steady double, saving his wind as he did

so, and his courage and confidence rose when he found that he was
distancing his pursuers so much that he could neither see nor hear anything
of them.

As he ran on he thought for a moment or two of the fierce gleaming eyes

and glistening teeth of Jarrett—of the blood he had shed, and the life he had
perhaps taken for the first time, remorsefully; but had he not acted thus,
what would he have been? A gashed corpse!

'Bah!' he said aloud, 'I am a soldier—why such thoughts at all? Why

should I have mercy when these wretches would have had none?' and he
began to regret that he had not fired a random shot or two through the
room-door and knocked over some of them on the staircase.

A sound now struck his ear; it was the thud of galloping hoofs upon the
veldt, and his heart sank as he remembered the two horses in the stable,
where his dead nag was lying.

He looked back, and there, sure enough, in the grey dawn were two
mounted men riding in scouting fashion, far apart, and he could not for a
moment doubt they were two of Jarrett's companions in pursuit, thirsting
with avarice and for revenge.

He made his way, stumbling wildly and breathlessly down a wooded

ravine to elude their sight; on and on he strove till a vine root caught his
foot: his hands outstretched beat the air for a moment, and then he fell
headlong forward and downward into a donga full of brushwood.

For a moment he had a sense of strange palms, and giant cacti, and of
great plants with long spiky leaves being about him, and then he became
unconscious as he lay there stunned and bleeding profusely from a wound
in his forehead, which had come in contact with a stone.
 END OF VOL. I.

BILLING & SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.

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