the forest. The sunshine playing in it seemed like laughter to him
now, a whimsical sort of merriment roused by the sheer effrontery
of the joke which fate had inflicted upon him.

Between the river and the balsam and spruce was only the rock
behind which he was cringing like a rabbit afraid to take to the
open. And his rock was a mere up-jutting of the solid floor of
shale that was under him. The wash sand that covered it like a
carpet was not more than four or five inches deep. He could not
dig in. There was not enough of it within reach to scrape up as a
protection. And his enemy, a hundred yards or so away, was a
determined wretch--and the deadliest shot he had ever known.

Three times Carrigan had made experiments to prove this, for he
had in mind a sudden rush to the shelter of the timber. Three
times he had raised the crown of his hat slightly above the top of
the rock, and three times the marksmanship of the other had
perforated it with neatness and dispatch. The third bullet had
carried his hat a dozen feet away. Whenever he showed a patch of
his clothing, a bullet replied with unerring precision. Twice they
had drawn blood. And the humor faded out of Carrigan's eyes.

Not long ago he had exulted in the bigness and glory of this
country of his, where strong men met hand to hand and eye to eye.
There were the other kind in it, the sort that made his profession
of manhunting a thing of reality and danger, but he expected
these--forgot them--when the wilderness itself filled his vision.
But his present situation was something unlike anything that had
ever happened in his previous experience with the outlawed. He had
faced dangers. He had fought. There were times when he had almost