r the stretch of woods between Beartown and the river,
that he might screen himself as quickly as possible. He would lose no
time in getting away from the village as soon as he could. It was quite
probable that he and his gang had come up or down the river and had a
launch awaiting them. To avoid going astray, he would use the highway
which joined Beartown and the landing.

Mr. Buxton had to climb three fences before he reached an open field of
slight extent, beyond which lay the woods. He knew the chances of
overtaking the criminal were meagre, but with a thrill of delight he
caught sight of his man only a little way in front and walking in the
same direction with himself. He seemed to have sprung from the ground,
and it was clear that he had no thought of further pursuit. His follower
tried to get nearer to him before he reached the woods, but the fellow
heard him and glancing over his shoulder broke into a run.

"Stop or I'll fire!" shouted Buxton.

After the young man's experience with his first pursuer and his
Springfield, he could not be blamed for refusing to heed the command. He
ran the faster and the next minute would have whisked beyond reach, had
not Buxton come to an abrupt halt, and taking a quick aim, fired.

He got his man too. With a cry of pain he leaped several feet in the air
and fell. Terrified by what he had done, Buxton ran forward, gun in hand,
and called out while several paces distant:

"Are you hurt bad?"

"I'm done for," was the reply as the wounded fellow laboriously climbed
to his feet.

With anger turned into sympathy, the captor asked:

"Where did I hit you?"

"You shattered my right leg," was the reply, accompanied by groans as the
fellow with excruciating effort tried to support himself on the other
limb.

Buxton laid down his weapon and knelt to examine the wound. He saw now
that the lower part of the trousers leg was shredded by the charge of
shot and that, doubtless, the hurt was a very grievous one.

"I'm sorry I gave it to you so bad, but you can't deny you desarved it.
If you're able to walk back to my house, with my help, I'll get a doctor
and we'll soon----"

At that instant the young man sprang back a couple of paces, and the
startled Buxton looking up saw that he stood firmly on both feet, with
the shotgun pointed at him. He had snatched up the weapon while the owner
was stooping over to inspect the wound.

"Now it's _my_ turn!" he said, with a chuckle. "It isn'