ever encountered in far off France.

"This is certainly 'No Man's Land,'" he muttered. "I do not believe a
human being ever trod this region before and it is not likely that
anyone will come here during the next one hundred years. And to think
that I missed that shot when my life depended upon it! It must be my
nerves."

A feeling of annoyance swept upon him, and picking up his rifle, he
hurled it among the trees.

"Lie there," he ordered. "You are of no use to me now, and I have no
strength to tote you along."

Then he laughed, and the hollow sound of his voice startled him. He
sprang to his feet and looked around. Why had he laughed? he asked
himself. Was he going out of his mind? He glanced at his hands and
shuddered, so bruised and bleeding were they. His clothes, too, were
in tatters, while his boots were so worn that portions of his feet were
visible.

For a few minutes he stood rigidly still, as if in a dream. The
intense loneliness of the place was appalling. It was unnerving him,
and he was losing control of himself. Suddenly he started and ran as
if for life, back over the track he had recently traversed. He was no
longer the Tom Reynolds who had started forth from Big Draw, but a
denizen of the wilds. The desire for food possessed him. It made him
mad, a demon, ready to fall upon any creature that crossed his path.
He was crafty as well, and reaching the shelter of the forest, he
glided cautiously along the edge of the meadow, up toward the little