“Stop! Stop, or I’ll kill you!”
Bogle’s voice was husky with anger. His heavy steps came clattering in pursuit.
Brick was now across the clearing. He plunged into the tangled thickets of the swamp. He strained every muscle to escape. His heart beat high with hope.
For five minutes he twisted and dodged in every direction, planning thus to throw his enemy off the track. The fresh snow offered little resistance, and the older crust underneath easily bore his weight. Finally he stopped to listen. To his dismay, he heard a snapping and threshing of dry bushes not far behind him.
“What a fool I am!” he muttered. “I forget that every step I take can be traced. It’s a question of speed now—nothing else will save me.”
So he dashed on at a striding gait, paying scant heed to brambles or thickets or obstructing rocks. The rifle swung lightly in one hand. He almost forgot that he had it.
Nearer and nearer came Bogle, noisily threshing the undergrowth. In vain Brick made desperate spurts. In vain he twisted to right and left. He knew that he must soon be overtaken. He shuddered to think of what would happen then. He need hope for no mercy. Strength began to fail him. There was a throbbing pain between his eyes.
Suddenly he came to a fallen tree, with a thick copse of bushes behind it. He tried to mount the obstacle, but slipped back. Before he could make a second attempt, Bogle was at his heels.
“I’ve got you!” he cried. “Your time has come.”
Brick wheeled around like a panther at bay. He cocked the rifle, and pointed it at the ruffian.