pe, dangling from something he could not distinctly
recognize; but what he could see, and see plainly, was a figure of a
man, a bearded man--_himself_--at its end. The body swayed back and
forth as he had once seen that of a "rustler" whom a group of cowboys
had left hanging to the scraggly branch of a scrub-oak; as a pendulum
marks time, measuring the velocity of the prairie wind.

With each recurrence of the vision the perspiration broke out over the
man anew, the sunburned forehead paled. This was what it was coming to;
he could not escape it. If ever purpose was unmistakably written on a
human face, it had been on the face of the man who lay sleeping so near,
the man who had trailed him like a tiger and caught him when he thought
he was safe. From another, there might still be hope; but from this one,
Jennie Blair's son--The vision of a woman lying white and motionless on
the coarse blankets of a bunk, of a small boy with wonderfully clear
blue eyes pounding harmlessly at the legs of the man looking down; the
sound of a childish voice, accusing, menacing, ringing out over all,
"You've killed her! You've killed her!"--this like a chasm stood between
them, and could never be crossed. Clasped together, the long nervous
fingers, a gentleman's fingers still, twined and gripped each other.
No, there was no hope. Better that the hands he had felt about his
throat in the morning had done their work. He shut his eyes. A hot wave
of anger, anger against himself, swept all other thoughts before it.
Why, having gotten safely away, having successfully hidden himself, had
he ever returned? Why, having in the depths of his nest in the middle of
the island escaped once, had a paltry desire for revenge against the man
he fancied had led the attack sent him back? What satisfaction was it,
if in taking the life of the other man it cost him his own? Fool that he
had been to imagine he could escape where no one had ever escaped
before! Fool! Fool! Thus dragged by the long hours of the afternoon.

With the coming of the chill of evening, Ben Blair awoke and rubbed his
eyes. A moment later he arose, and, walking over to his captive, looked
down at him, steadily, peculiarly. So long as he could, Tom Blair
returned the gaze; but at last his eyes fell. A voice sounded in his
ears, a voice speaking low and clearly.

"You're a human being," it said. "Physically, I'm of your species,
modelled from the same clay." A long pause. "I wonder if any