and he would settle for
the man behind the log.

He continued again the slow operation of worming his rifle barrel
between the pack and the rock. The near-sighted little sandpiper had
discovered him and seemed interested in the operation. It had come a
dozen feet nearer, and was perking its head and seesawing on its long
legs as it watched with inquisitive inspection the unusual
manifestation of life behind the rock. Its twittering note had changed
to an occasional sharp and querulous cry. Carrigan wanted to wring its
neck. That cry told the other fellow that he was still alive and moving.

It seemed an age before his rifle was through, and every moment he
expected another shot. He flattened himself out, Indian fashion, and
sighted along the barrel. He was positive that his enemy was watching,
yet he could make out nothing that looked like a head anywhere along
the log. At one end was a clump of deeper foliage. He was sure he saw a
sudden slight movement there, and in the thrill of the moment was
tempted to send a bullet into the heart of it. But he saved his
cartridge. He felt the mighty importance of certainty. If he fired
once--and missed--the advantage of his unsuspected loophole would be
gone. It would be transformed into a deadly menace. Even as it was, if
his enemy's next bullet should enter that way--

He felt the discomfort of the thought, and in spite of himself a tremor
of apprehension ran up his spine. He felt an even greater desire to
wring the neck of the inquisitive little sandpiper. The creature had
circled round squarely in front of him and stood there tilting its tail
and bobbing its head as if its one insane desire was to look down the
length of his rifle barrel. The bird was giving him away. If the other
fellow was only half as clever as his marksmanship was good--

Suddenly every nerve in Carrigan's body tightened. He was positive that
he had caught the outline of a human head and shoulders in the foliage.
His finger pressed gently against the trigger of his Winchester. Before
he breathed again he would have fired. But a shot from the foliage beat
him out by the fraction of a second. In that precious time lost, his
enemy's bullet entered the edge of his kit--and came through. He felt
the shock of it, and in the infinitesimal space between the physical
impact and the mental effect of shock his brain told him the horrible
thing had happened. It was his head--his face. It was as if he had
plunged