first
spring days.

The man on the cliff stood up, holding his rifle. He had done with
looking down; now he pivoted slowly, looking off in all other
directions. Presently he began climbing back up the few feet to the
knife-like crest from which he had descended not five minutes ago. He
paused there for hardly more than an instant and then went on, down the
further side, out of sight.

The man who had seen all this from his own slope caught up his canvas
roll again and hurried down toward the lake. For the first time he spoke
aloud, saying:

"Swen Brodie. There's not another man in the mountains brute enough for
that."

He hastened on, taking the shortest way, making nothing of the steepest
slopes. He was going straight toward the nearer end of the lake, which
he must skirt to come up the further mountain and to the man who had
fallen; and, by the way, straight toward the peak, still bright in the
sunlight, which he had wanted to revisit all along.

_Chapter II_

Much of the descent of the long slope was taken at a run, on ploughing
heels. He crossed the springy meadow at a jog-trot. But the climb to the
fallen man was another matter. The sun was appreciably lower, the
shadows already made dusky tangles among the trees, when the man
carrying the canvas roll came at last under the cliffs. From out these
shadows, before his keen eyes found the man they sought, he heard a
voice calling faintly:

"That you, Brodie?"

"No. Brodie's gone."

The voice, though very weak, sharpened perceptibly:

"You, who are you?"

"What difference does it make?--if you need help."

"Who said I wanted help? Not Brodie!"

"No. Not Brodie."

He dropped his roll and began working his way through the bushes.
Presently he came to a spot from which he could see a figure propped up
against a tree. There was a rifle across the man's knees, gripped in
both hands. And yet surely the rifle had been whirled out of his hands
in his fall. Then he was not hurt badly, after all, since he had managed
to work his way back up to it.

"Oh! It's you, is it, King?" The man against the tree did not seem
overjoyed; there was a sullen note in his voice.

King came on, breaking his way through the brush.

"Hello," he said, a little taken aback. "It's you, is it? I thought it
would be----" But he did not say who. He came on and stood over the man
on the ground, stooping for an instant to peer close into his face.
"Hurt much?" he asked.