Before I realized what had happened, the woodsman had his brawny fingers tightly clasped about the animal’s throat. In the struggle, he had forced it back nearer the fire and into the light, and it stood erect on its hind paws.
Standing full in the firelight, I was horrified to see the maniacal expression on Rivers’ face. His small eyes seemed riveted upon his victim and he held the powerful jaws taut with a sort of fiendish delight.
It wasn’t the face of the defenceless man, killing a dangerous animal. It was the face of a dangerous man, killing a defenceless animal. The beast uttered a few stifled gasps and started to sink to the ground.
A screech and then a sort of hysterical laugh sounded shrilly through the trees. We stared with frightened eyes and pounding hearts.
Rivers released the dead animal and stood as if rooted to the spot.
Standing just between the darkness and the firelight, was the hermit! His long, unkempt hair and beard were dripping wet and the few rags that served to cover his poor, thin body were clinging to him.
The wild haunting eyes looked long at the prone beast, then at Rivers and ourselves. He seemed to see all and yet nothing. Then his long white bony fingers reached out toward Rivers. And he laughed—that horrible, terrible laugh. Charlie stepped back.
“So!” the hermit shrieked and moved nearer Rivers, “you don’t recognize me, eh, Weston?” Rivers flinched and drew himself up.
“It’s I, Weston!” he cried, “I, Roland McClintick! I see you don’t kill with the gun any more! You like strangling best, is that it?” Rivers had moved back toward us. And the hermit laughed, his voice breaking into a sob.
“You won’t get away from me, Weston! You killed Northrop and my father, and now my pet!” Tears were streaming down his cheeks. His voice was quiet when he spoke again.