blinked out of the blue.

The red glow of the burning logs lighted up Jones's calm, cold face.
Tranquil, unalterable and peaceful it seemed; yet beneath the peace I
thought I saw a suggestion of wild restraint, of mystery, of unslaked
life.

Strangely enough, his next words confirmed my last thought.

"For forty years I've had an ambition. It's to get possession of an
island in the Pacific, somewhere between Vancouver and Alaska, and then
go to Siberia and capture a lot of Russian sables. I'd put them on the
island and cross them with our silver foxes. I'm going to try it next
year if I can find the time."

The ruling passion and character determine our lives. Jones was
sixty-three years old, yet the thing that had ruled and absorbed his
mind was still as strong as the longing for freedom in Kitty's wild
heart.

Hours after I had crawled into my sleeping-bag, in the silence of night
I heard her working to get free. In darkness she was most active,
restless, intense. I heard the clink of her chain, the crack of her
teeth, the scrape of her claws. How tireless she was. I recalled the
wistful light in her eyes that saw, no doubt, far beyond the campfire
to the yellow crags, to the great downward slopes, to freedom. I
slipped my elbow out of the bag and raised myself. Dark shadows were
hovering under the pines. I saw Kitty's eyes gleam like sparks, and I
seemed to see in them the hate, the fear, the terror she had of the
clanking thing that bound her!

I shivered, perhaps from the cold night wind which moaned through the
pines; I saw the stars glittering pale and far off, and under their wan
light the still, set face of Jones, and blanketed forms of my other
companions.

The last thing I remembered before dropping into dreamless slumber was
hearing a bell tinkle in the forest, which I recognized as the one I
had placed on Satan.

CHAPTER 17.

CONCLUSION

Kitty was not the only cougar brought into camp alive. The ensuing days
were fruitful of cougars and adventure. There were more wild rides to
the music of the baying hounds, and more heart-breaking canyon slopes
to conquer, and more swinging, tufted tails and snarling savage faces
in the pinyons. Once again, I am sorry to relate, I had to glance down
the sights of the little Remington, and I saw blood on the stones.
Those eventful days sped by all too soon.

When the time for parting came it took no little discussion to decide
on the quickest way of get