THE hills were wrapped in the hush of the close of day. The sun had long since dropped behind the skyline of mountain-tops. And now the heavens, which had flamed out in a glorious wake, were faded to the thin, cold yellow which the purple of evening was deepening every moment. In a short time the lesser glory of a myriad night-lights would embark upon its brief, triumphant reign.
Night was already in the heart of the great forests. The last of the twilit distance had been swallowed up by the advance of hungry shadows. Now, with darkness reigning, the hush was crowded with the strange pianissimos of invisible life, and the uneasy creak of tree-trunks, stirred by the cold breath from the glacial heights, that was insufficient to do more than provoke a chill shudder down the stately aisles.
A camp-fire was smouldering comfortingly at the feet of the man squatting over it. He was a queer, crouching figure, with hands clasped tightly about his drawn-up knees. His somewhat sunken eyes looked to shine with a desperate gleam as they caught the ruddy reflection of fitful flame. A single revolver was strapped about his waist.
His clothes were sufficiently scant for the chill of the night. They were rough, and worn, and looked to be loose on a body that had lost some of its wonted robustness. The pipe thrust between his jaws was unlit, empty. From the crown of his loose-brimmed prairie hat, drawn low over his head, and his lean cheeks, with their stubble of black beard and whisker, right down to his long, heavy boots, he looked unclean, unkempt, something of the “mean-white” so despised by the manhood of the outworld.
But Andy McFardell’s appearance at the moment did him less than justice. It was the result of a long, weary trail. The man was wasted, underfed, hard driven. His life for many days had been little better than that of some forest beast, for his way had lain unmapped, unscheduled. He had been moving blindly, searching a region where the only humanity he was likely to encounter must be avoided. Careless of himself, careless of everything but his task, now with hope soaring high, now with despair wringing his heart, he had moved on and on with tireless purpose.
Near by a rifle lay on the ground, and a few yards away his horse was tethered at a place where the only possible feed was the green foliage of a low-growing shrub. The beast was in no better case than its rider. Even in the uncertain light of the camp-fire the sharp angles of its quarters were plainly discernible, and the dejected droop of its whole body was pitiful as it slumbered standing. Close at hand, as near to the fire as safety permitted, the man’s blanket was lying ready for the moment when sleep overtook him. But that moment was not yet.
He had no intention of slumbering for hours yet. Sleep just now was the last thing that concerned him. He wanted to think. He wanted to plan. He desired to map out to the last detail all that was yet to come. He was in that condition of mental exaltation when physical needs and comforts had no place in his consideration. It was sufficient that he had lived for this moment—this great moment when he saw the man who had been the first cause of his downfall held absolutely at his mercy.
Mercy? He knew no such word. There was no mercy for Jim Pryse. There was no mercy for any one. He was fighting for some sort of worldly salvation for himself. It was the only sort of salvation he understood, and furthermore, he realised that it looked to be within his grasp.
He bestirred himself, hardly realising his purpose or the thing he did. He released his knees and stood up. He moved over to a small pile of deadwood fuel, which was his whole store. He brought an armful back with him, and recklessly flung it on the fire. Then he squatted again upon his haunches.
He sucked at his empty pipe. He had nothing with which to refill it. But it gave him the taste of tobacco, and, in his present mood, it was sufficient.