vantage point which lay at the end of a straight line between his
rock and the nearest spruce and balsam. From that angle he could
not completely shelter himself. But the man a hundred yards below
had not moved a foot from his ambush since he had fired his first
shot. That had come when Carrigan was crossing the open space of
soft, white sand. It had left a burning sensation at his temple--
half an inch to the right and it would have killed him. Swift as
the shot itself, he dropped behind the one protection at hand, the
up-jutting shoulder of shale.

For a quarter of an hour he had been making efforts to wriggle
himself free from his bulky shoulder-pack without exposing himself
to a coup-de-grace. At last he had the thing off. It was a
tremendous relief when he thrust it out beside the rock, almost
doubling the size of his shelter. Instantly there came the crash
of a bullet in it, and then another. He heard the rattle of pans,
and wondered if his skillet would be any good after today.

For the first time he could wipe the sweat from his face and
stretch himself. And also he could think. Carrigan possessed an
unalterable faith in the infallibility of the mind. "You can do
anything with the mind," was his code. "It is better than a good
gun."

Now that he was physically more at ease, he began reassembling his
scattered mental faculties. Who was this stranger who was pot-
shotting at him with such deadly animosity from the ambush below?
Who--

Another crash of lead in tinware and steel put an unpleasant