I could only wait. I had but one more shot, and wished to hold it
till he should be close; but my torn hand was weak, and the bruised
tendons had already begun to stiffen. Into that deep place, where
bank and trees overhung, the sun did not come, and I felt the cold
striking into my raw flesh. More than that, my weight upon my
shoulder began to cut off the blood from my arm. I felt pricking in
my flesh, my arm began to be numb, and I feared that I might not be
able to shoot.

If he could but hurry! He dragged himself at a snail's pace. It
would be so long before he came close that my hand would be
useless. Yet as he crawled directly at me, the mark was a poor one.
I saw with satisfaction that he would have to turn aside for one of
the rocks in his path. When at last he reached it, and began to
drag himself around it, he gave me my last chance.

I saw the space behind his shoulder, prayed that my bullet might
miss his ribs, summoned the last force at my almost dead hand, and
fired.

A little drift of air blew the smoke aside so quickly that I could
see the fur fly. He bit savagely at his side, but he crawled on
without stopping. From my numb hand the revolver fell without noise
in the snow--my fight was finished. He came on; he was only fifteen
feet away from me, when he stopped and coughed. Would he sink,
unable to move farther?

No; he started again! Although his legs dragged behind him,
impeding, although he left a red trail on the snow, and each step