It was possibly fifteen minutes after the last shot had been fired, when Brick heard a noise. It came from below him, and sounded like the snapping of a dry stick. Brick’s horse was well concealed by the willows from any one coming up the slope.
Just below Brick was a jack-pine thicket, growing up out of a tangle of rocks and old logs, and he studied this closely. One of the jack-pine tops jiggled, as if something had struck it slightly. Brick humped a little lower and drew back the hammer on his six-shooter.
Something was coming out through the thicket within ten feet of Brick. At first he thought it was a bear. Brick did not want trouble with a bear just now. A six-shooter is an unreliable bear weapon—and Brick was after bigger game.
Then the bear resolved itself into a man—Santel. He lifted his head slowly, his eyes searching ahead—and looked into the muzzle of Brick’s six-shooter.
For several moments they looked at each other. Then:
“It’s yuh, eh?” said Santel softly.
“Yeah,” nodded Brick. “Yuh better let go that gun, Santel.”
“I know it.”
Santel sat up, leaving his gun on the ground, while Brick moved down and secured it. Then he sat down and they considered each other.
“Where’s your rifle?” queried Santel. He did not seem greatly concerned over his capture.