shot at me with that revolver."

The sand was in his armpits. The Frenchman ceased to jump and wring
his hands, and smiled at him oddly. Mills, in the midst of his
trouble, felt an odd sense of outraged propriety. The smile, he
reflected, was ill-timed--and he was sinking deeper.

"What you grinning at?" he gasped. "Shoot, can't you?"

"I coom pull you out," said the Frenchman, fumbling at the buckle of
his belt, and he forthwith stepped into the water.

He waded swiftly to within five feet of the sinking man, and flung
him the end of the belt. Mills failed to catch it, and the Frenchman
shifted his feet cautiously and flung again.

"Now," he shouted as the trader gripped it, "catch 'old tight," and
he started to drag him bodily forwards.

"Careful," cried Mills; "you're sinking!"

The Frenchman stepped free hastily, and strained on the belt again.
Mills endeavored to kick with his entombed legs, and called a warning
as his rescuer sunk in the sands. Thus they wrestled, and at length
Mills found his head in the water and his body free.

He rose, and they waded to the bank.

"Of all the quicksands I ever saw," said the trader slowly, as he sat
down and gazed at the place that had so nearly been his grave, "that