h his forefinger ready upon the trigger. His quick ears tell him
that the traveler has entered the bush and that he is walking his
horse. The time seems endless, while the horseman waits, but his
patience is not exhausted by any means. For more than a week,
subsisting on the barest rations which an empty pocket has driven him
to beg in that bleak country, he has looked for this meeting.

Now, through the bushes, he sees the traveler as his horse ambles down
the trail toward him. It is a slight fur-clad figure much like his
own, but, to judge by the grim smile that passes across his gaunt
features, one which gives the waiting man eminent satisfaction. He
notes the stranger's alert movements, the quick, flashing black eyes,
the dark features, as he peers from side to side in the bush, over the
edge of the down-turned storm-collar; the legs which set so close to
the saddle, the clumsily mitted hands. Nor does he fail to observe the
uneasy looks he casts about him, and he sees that, in spite of the
solitude, the man is fearful of his surroundings.

The stranger draws abreast of the black sign-board. His sidelong
glances cannot miss the irregular, chalked characters. His horse comes
to a dead stand opposite them, and the rider's eyes become fixed upon
the strange message. He reads; and while he reads his lips move like
one who spells out the words he sees.

"This is the One-Way Trail," he reads. And then his eyes turn in the
direction of the pointing finger.

He looks down the trail which leads to Battule, whither the finger is
pointing, and, looking, a strange expression creeps over his dusky
features. Instinctively, he understands that the warning is meant for
him. And, in his heart, he believes that death for him lies somewhere
out there. And yet he does not turn and flee. He simply sits looking
and thinking.

Again, as if fascinated, his eyes wander back to the legend upon the
board and he reads and rereads the message it conveys. And all the
time he is a prey to a curious, uncertain feeling. For his mind goes
back over many scenes that do him little credit. Even to his callous
nature there is something strangely prophetic in that message, and its
effect he cannot shake off. And while he stares his dark features
change their hue, and he passes one mitted hand across his forehead.

There is a sudden crackling of breaking brushwood within a few yards
of him; his horse bounds to one side and it is with difficulty he