to the earth, but more eager yet for a right distance and a
fair shot at the fiend there within the wood.

Before they had stumbled half the distance down the hill, a wave of
leaping flame a hundred feet long was hurling itself upon the forest.
They could not stamp that fire out. But they could kill that man!

The man ran back behind the wall of fire to where he had started and
began to run another line of fire in the other direction. At that
moment Stocking yelled:

"There's another starting, straight in front!"

"Get him," Jeffrey shouted over his shoulder. "I'm going to kill this
one."

Stocking turned slightly and made for a second light which he had seen
starting. Jeffrey rode on alone, unslinging his rifle and driving
madly. His horse, already unnerved by the wild dash down the hill, now
saw the fire and started to bolt off at a tangent. Jeffrey fought with
him a furious moment, trying to force him toward the fire and the man.
Then, seeing that he could not conquer the fright of the horse and
that his man was escaping, he threw his leg over the saddle, and
leaping free with his gun ran towards the man.

The man was dodging in and out now among the trees, but still using
his torch and moving rapidly away.

Jeffrey ran on, gradually overhauling the man in his zigzag until he
was within easy distance. But the man continued weaving his way among
the trees so that it was impossible to get a fair aim. Jeffrey dropped
to one knee and steadied the sights of his rifle until they closed
upon the running man and clung to him.

Suddenly the man turned in an open space and faced about. It was
Rogers, Jeffrey saw. He was unarmed, but he must be killed.

"I am going to kill him," said Jeffrey under his breath, as he again
fixed the sights of his rifle, this time full on the man's breast.

A shot rang out in front somewhere. Rogers threw up his hands, took a
half step forward, and fell on his face.

Jeffrey, his finger still clinging to the trigger which he had not
pulled, ran forward to where the man lay.

He was lying face down, his arms stretched out wide at either side,
his fingers convulsively clutching at tufts of grass.

He was dying. No need for a second look.

His hat had fallen off to a little distance. There was a clean round
hole in the back of the skull. The close-cropped, iron grey hair
showed just the merest streak of red.

Just out of reach of one of his hands lay a still flaming railroad
torch,