ambush wherein his murderer lay.

His body was clear of the rock and the pack, but there came no
other shot from the thick clump of balsam. Nor, for a time, was
there movement. The wood warbler was cheeping inquiringly at this
sudden change in the deportment of his friend behind the shoulder
of shale. The sandpiper, a bit startled, had gone back to the edge
of the river and was running a race with himself along the wet
sand. And the two quarrelsome jays had brought their family
squabble to the edge of the timber.

It was their wrangling that roused Carrigan to the fact that he
was not dead. It was a thrilling discovery--that and the fact that
he made out clearly a patch of sunlight in the sand. He did not
move, but opened his eyes wider. He could see the timber. On a
straight line with his vision was the thick clump of balsam. And
as he looked, the boughs parted and a figure came out. Carrigan
drew a deep breath. He found that it did not hurt him. He gripped
the fingers of the hand that was under his body, and they closed
on the butt of his service automatic. He would win yet, if God
gave him life a few minutes longer.

His enemy advanced. As he drew nearer, Carrigan closed his eyes
more and more. They must be shut, and he must appear as if dead,
when the other came up. Then, when the scoundrel put down his gun,
as he naturally would--his chance would be at hand. If a quiver of
his eyes betrayed him--

He closed them tight. Dizziness began to creep over him, and the
fire in his brain grew hot again. He heard footsteps, and they