eal, and that it was
for many instead of two. Wildly he searched the firelit spaces and the
shadows for a sign of Jeanne. He saw nothing. She was not in the camp.
The five or six men who had fled up the river with her were not there.
His fingers dug deep in the earth under him at the discovery, and once
more appalling fears overwhelmed him. Perhaps she had already met her
fate a little deeper in the forest.

He crept over the edge of the knoll and worked himself down through the
low bush on the opposite side, which would bring him within a dozen
feet of the man over the fire. There he would have them at his mercy,
and at the point of his revolver would compel them to tell him where
Jeanne had been taken. The advantage was all in his favor. It would not
be difficult to make them prisoners and leave them secured while he
followed after their companions.

He was intent only upon his plan, and did not take his eyes from the
men over the fire. He came to the end of the bush, and crouched with
head and shoulders exposed, his revolver in his hand. Suddenly a sound
close to the tent startled him. It was a low cough. The men over the
fire made no movement to look behind them, but Philip turned.

In the shadow of a tree, which had concealed her until now, sat Jeanne.
She was tense and straight. Her white face was turned to him. Her
beautiful eyes glowed like stars. Her lips were parted; he could see
her quick, excited breathing. She saw him! She knew him! He could see
the joy of hope in her face and that she was crushing back an impulse
to cry out to him, even as he was restraining his own mad desire to
shout out his defiance and joy. And there in the firelight, his face
illumined, and oblivious for the moment of the presence of the two men,
Philip straightened himself and held out his arms with a glad smile to
Jeanne.

Hardly had he turned to the men, ready to spring out upon them, when
there came a terrific interruption. There was a sudden crash in the
brush behind him, a menacing snarl, and a huge wolfish brute launched
itself at his throat. The swift instinct of self-preservation turned
the weapon intended for the men over the fire upon this unexpected
assailant. The snarling fangs of the husky were gleaming in his face
and the animal's body was against the muzzle of his revolver when
Philip fired. Though he escaped the fangs, he could not ward off the
impact of the dog's body, and in another moment he was sprawling upon