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 died. Fanchet, the half-breed who
had robbed a dozen wilderness mail sledges, had come nearest to
trapping him and putting him out of business. Fanchet was a desperate
man and had few scruples. But even Fanchet--before he was caught--would
not have cornered a man with such bloodthirsty unfairness as Carrigan
found himself cornered now. He no longer had a doubt as to what was in
the other's mind. It was not to wound and make merely helpless. It was
to kill. It was not difficult to prove this. Careful not to expose a
part of his arm or shoulder, he drew a white handkerchief from his
pocket, fastened it to the end of his rifle, and held the flag of
surrender three feet above the rock. And then, with equal caution, he
slowly thrust up a flat piece of shale, which at a distance of a
hundred yards might appear as his shoulder or even his head. Scarcely
was it four inches above the top of the rock before there came the
report of a rifle, and the shale was splintered into a hundred bits.

Carrigan lowered his flag and gathered himself in tighter. The accuracy
of the other's marksmanship was appalling. He knew that if he exposed
himself for an instant to use his own rifle or the heavy automatic in
his holster, he would be a dead man before he could press a trigger.
And that time, he felt equally sure, would come sooner or later. His
muscles were growing cramped. He could not forever double himself up
like a four-bladed jackknife behind the altogether inefficient shelter
of the rock.

His executioner was hid