"He will come quietly, Homer. Don't shoot!" cried the girl.
A sudden, reckless rage took possession of Jim. He stooped swiftly, snatched the largest brand from the fire and flung it in Homer's face. Homer swore and twitched his finger. The hammer of the Snider fell, the cap in the base of the cartridge detonated with a sharp crack—and that was all! And before the volunteer man-hunter could eject the worthless charge and insert another—another equally worthless, had he only known it—Jim was at him. Homer clubbed his rifle and swung it, but Jim ducked, grabbed with his right hand and yanked Homer into the pit, rifle and snowshoes and all. Despite the fact that he kept his left foot clear of the ground all the time, Jim had the intruder disarmed and bound helplessly at wrist and ankle in thirty seconds.
Jim crawled out of the den and thicket to look for the sled which Steeves had mentioned. Flora followed him.
"He tried to kill you," she whispered.
"He doesn't like me, evidently," replied Jim. "Lucky for me the cartridge didn't explode!"
"What will we do next?" she asked.
"Start for home first thing to-morrow morning, if you feel fit to travel."
"But you can't crawl all the way."
"Homer will have to drag me on the sled. That's what he brought it for."
"But he intended to haul you home as a prisoner. Now it will be a different matter entirely when he knows that the sheriff doesn't want you. He will refuse to haul you, for he is very stubborn; and then what can we do? You wouldn't shoot him."