white man? He did not recognize him though Baynes' canoe was now
in mid stream and the features of both its occupants plainly
discernible to those on shore. One of Malbihn's blacks it was who
first recognized his fellow black in the person of Baynes' companion.
Then Malbihn guessed who the white man must be, though he could scarce
believe his own reasoning. It seemed beyond the pale of wildest
conjecture to suppose that the Hon. Morison Baynes had followed him
through the jungle with but a single companion--and yet it was true.
Beneath the dirt and dishevelment he recognized him at last, and in the
necessity of admitting that it was he, Malbihn was forced to recognize
the incentive that had driven Baynes, the weakling and coward, through
the savage jungle upon his trail.

The man had come to demand an accounting and to avenge. It seemed
incredible, and yet there could be no other explanation. Malbihn
shrugged. Well, others had sought Malbihn for similar reasons in the
course of a long and checkered career. He fingered his rifle, and
waited.

Now the canoe was within easy speaking distance of the shore.

"What do you want?" yelled Malbihn, raising his weapon threateningly.

The Hon. Morison Baynes leaped to his feet.

"You, damn you!" he shouted, whipping out his revolver and firing
almost simultaneously with the Swede.

As the two reports rang out Malbihn dropped his rifle, clutched
frantically at his breast, staggered, fell first to his knees and then
lunged upon his face. Baynes stiffened. His head flew back
spasmodically. For an instant he stood thus, and then crumpled very
gently into the bottom of the boat.

The black paddler was at a loss as to what to do. If Malbihn really
were dead he could continue on to join his fellows without fear; but
should the Swede only be wounded he would be safer upon the far shore.
Therefore he hesitated, holding the canoe in mid stream. He had come
to have considerable respect for his new master and was not unmoved by
his death. As he sat gazing at the crumpled body in the bow of the
boat he saw it move. Very feebly the man essayed to turn over. He
still lived. The black moved forward and lifted him to a sitting
position. He was standing in front of him, his paddle in one hand,
asking Baynes where he was hit when there was another shot from shore
and the Negro pitched head long overboard, his paddle still clutched in
his dead fingers--shot through the forehe