Over his shoulder was a rifle, and all around him ran dogs, — big, powerful dogs, built like foxhounds but with the rough, wiry coats of Airedales, even rougher of ear and features.
The dogs, — half a dozen or so in number, — seemed very tired. All ran down eagerly to the water and drank and slobbered and panted, lolling their tongues, and slaking their thirst again and again along the swirling edge of a deep trout pool.
Darragh's rifle lay in the hollow of his left arm; his khaki waistcoat was set with loops full of cartridges. From his left wrist hung a raw-hide whip.
Now he lad aside his rifle and whip, took from the pocket of his shooting coat three or four leather dog-leashes, went down among the dogs and coupled them up.
They followed him back to the bank above. Here he sat down on a rock and inspected his watch.
He had been seated there for ten minutes, possibly, with his tired dogs lying around him, when just above him he saw a State Trooper emerge from the woods on foot, carrying a rifle over one shoulder.
"Jack!" he called in a guarded voice.
Trooper Stormont turned, caught sight of Darragh, made a signal of recognition, and came toward him.
Darragh said: "Your mate, Trooper Lannis, is down stream. I've two of my own game wardens at the cross-roads, two more on the Ghost Lake Road, and two foresters and an inspector out toward Owl Marsh."
Stormont nodded, looked down at the dogs.