allow water and bars of
quicksand. But not yet! Wearily, doggedly he faced about toward the
bluff.

All that day and all that night, all the next day and all the next
night, he stole like a hunted savage from river to bluff; and every hour
forced upon him the bitter certainty that he was trapped.

Duane lost track of days, of events. He had come to an evil pass.
There arrived an hour when, closely pressed by pursuers at the extreme
southern corner of the brake, he took to a dense thicket of willows,
driven to what he believed was his last stand.

If only these human bloodhounds would swiftly close in on him! Let him
fight to the last bitter gasp and have it over! But these hunters, eager
as they were to get him, had care of their own skins. They took few
risks. They had him cornered.

It was the middle of the day, hot, dusty, oppressive, threatening storm.
Like a snake Duane crawled into a little space in the darkest part of
the thicket and lay still. Men had cut him off from the bluff, from the
river, seemingly from all sides. But he heard voices only from in front
and toward his left. Even if his passage to the river had not been
blocked, it might just as well have been.

"Come on fellers--down hyar," called one man from the bluff.

"Got him corralled at last," shouted another.

"Reckon ye needn't be too shore. We thought thet more'n once," taunted
another.

"I seen him, I tell you."

"Aw, thet was a deer."

"But Bill found fresh tracks an' blood on the willows."

"If he's winged we needn't hurry."

"Hold on thar, you boys," came a shout in authoritative tones from
farther up the bluff. "Go slow. You-all air gittin' foolish at the end
of a long chase."

"Thet's right, Colonel. Hold 'em back. There's nothin' shorer than
somebody'll be stoppin' lead pretty quick. He'll be huntin' us soon!"

"Let's surround this corner an' starve him out."

"Fire the brake."

How clearly all this talk pierced Duane's ears! In it he seemed to hear
his doom. This, then, was the end he had always expected, which had been
close to him before, yet never like now.

"By God!" whispered Duane, "the thing for me to do now--is go out--meet
them!"

That was prompted by the fighting, the killing instinct in him. In that
moment it had almost superhuman power. If he must die, that was the way
for him to die. What else could be expected of Buck Duane? He got to his
knees and drew his gun. With his swollen and almost useless hand