where, and for that Hale was looking. Across the brook he could see
the tracks no farther, for he was too little of a woodsman to follow so
old a trail, but as he stood behind a clump of rhododendron, wondering
what he could do, he heard the crack of a dead stick down the stream,
and noiselessly he moved farther into the bushes. His heart thumped in
the silence--the long silence that followed--for it might be a hostile
Tolliver that was coming, so he pulled his pistol from his holster, made
ready, and then, noiseless as a shadow, the Red Fox slipped past him
along the path, in his moccasins now, and with his big Winchester in his
left hand. The Red Fox, too, was looking for that cartridge shell, for
only the night before had he heard for the first time of the whispered
suspicions against him. He was making for the blind and Hale trembled
at his luck. There was no path on the other side of the stream, and Hale
could barely hear him moving through the bushes. So he pulled off his
boots and, carrying them in one hand, slipped after him, watching for
dead twigs, stooping under the branches, or sliding sidewise through
them when he had to brush between their extremities, and pausing every
now and then to listen for an occasional faint sound from the Red Fox
ahead. Up the ravine the old man went to a little ledge of rocks, beyond
which was the blind, and when Hale saw his stooped figure slip over that
and disappear, he ran noiselessly toward it, crept noiselessly to the
top and peeped carefully over to see the Red Fox with his back to him
and peering into a clump of bushes--hardly ten yards away. While
Hale looked, the old man thrust his hand into the bushes and drew out
something that twinkled in the sun. At the moment Hale's horse nickered
from the bushes, and the Red Fox slipped his hand into his pocket,
crouched listening a moment, and then, step by step, backed toward the
ledge. Hale rose:

"I want you, Red!"

The old man wheeled, the wolf's snarl came, but the big rifle was too
slow--Hale's pistol had flashed in his face.

"Drop your gun!" Paralyzed, but the picture of white fury, the old man
hesitated.

"Drop--your--gun!" Slowly the big rifle was loosed and fell to the
ground.

"Back away--turn around and hands up!"

With his foot on the Winchester, Hale felt in the old man's pockets and
fished out an empty cartridge shell. Then he picked up the rifle and
threw the slide.

"It fits all right. March--toward tha