of his personality
which held none of the elements of cold-blooded murder. He had
believed that he had the Sawtooth killer under observation, and he had
been watching and waiting for evidence that would impress a grand jury.
And all the while he had let Al Woodruff ride free and unsuspected.

The one stupid thing, in Swan's opinion, which he had not done was to
let Lone go on holding his tongue. He had forced the issue that
morning. He had wanted to make Lone talk, had hoped for a weakening
and a confession. Instead he had learned a good deal which he should
have known before.

As he forged up the slope across the ridged lip of the canyon, his one
immediate object was speed. Up the canyon and over the divide on the
west shoulder of Bear Top was a trail to the open country beyond. It
was perfectly passable, as Swan knew; he had packed in by that trail
when he located his homestead on Bear Top. That is why he had his
cabin up and was living in it before the Sawtooth discovered his
presence.

Al, he believed, was making for Bear Top Pass. Once down the other
side he would find friends to lend him fresh horses. Swan had learned
something of these friends of the Sawtooth, and he could guess pretty
accurately how far some of them would go in their service. Fresh
horses for Al, food--perhaps even a cabin where he could hide Lorraine
away--were to be expected from any one of them, once Al was over the
divide.

Swan glanced up at the sun, saw that it was dropping to late afternoon
and started in at a long, loose-jointed trot across the mountain meadow
called Skyline. A few pines, with scattered clumps of juniper and fir,
dotted the long, irregular stretch of grassland which formed the
meadow. Range cattle were feeding here and there, so wild they lifted
heads to stare at the man and dog, then came trotting forward, their
curiosity unabated by the fact that they had seen these two before.

Jack looked up at his master, looked at the cattle and took his place
at Swan's heels. Swan shouted and flung his arms, and the cattle
ducked, turned and galloped awkwardly away. Swan's trot did not
slacken. His rifle swung rhythmically in his right hand, the muzzle
tilted downward. Beads of perspiration on his forehead had merged into
tiny rivulets on his cheeks and dripped off his clean-lined, square
jaw. Still he ran, his breath unlaboured yet coming in whispery
aspirations from his great lungs.

The full length of