She ran easily, — an agile, tireless young thing, part of the swiftness and silence of the woods — part of the darkness, the sinuous celerity, the ominous hush of wide, still places — part of its very blood and pulse and hot, sweet breath.
Even when she came out among the birches by Clinch's Dump she was breathing evenly and without distress. She ran to the kitchen door but did not enter. On pegs under the porch a score or more of rusty traps hung. She unhooked the largest, would the chain around it, tucked it under her left arm and started back.
* * * * *
When at last she arrived at the place of pines again, and saw the far, spectral glimmer of Quintana's fire, the girl was almost breathless. But dawn was not very far away and there remained little time for the taking alive of a dangerous man.
Where two enormous pines grew close together near a sapling, she knelt down, and, with both hands, scooped out a big hollow in the immemorial layers of pine needles. Here she placed her trap. It took all her strength and skill to set it; to fasten the chain around the base of the sapling pine.
And now, working with only the faintest glimmer of her torch, she covered everything with pine needles.
It was not possible to restore the forest floor; the place remained visible — a darker, rougher patch on the bronzed carpet of needles beaten smooth by decades of rain and snow. No animal would have trodden that suspicious space. But it was with man she had to deal — a dangerous but reasoning man with few and atrophied instincts — and with no experience in traps; and, therefore, in no dread of them.
* * * * *
Before she started she had thrown a cartridge into the breech of her rifle.
Now she pocketed her torch and seated herself between the two big pines and about three feet behind the hidden trap.