weight; but, ahead, a ruddy glow stained two huge pines. And
presently she saw the fire, burning low, but redly alive. And, after a
long, long while, she saw a man.

He had left the fire circle. His pack and belted mackinaw still lay
there at the foot of a great tree. But when, finally, she discovered
him, he was scarcely visible where he crouched in the shadow of a
tree-trunk, with his rifle half lowered at a ready.

Had he heard her? It did not seem possible. Had he been crouching
there since he made his fire? Why had he made it then -- for its warmth
could not reach him there. And why was he so stealthily watching --
silent, unstirring, crouched in the shadows?

She strained her eyes; but distance and obscurity made recognition
impossible. And yet, somehow, every quivering instinct within her was
telling her that the crouched and shadowy watcher beyond the fire was
Quintana.

And every concentrated instinct was telling her that he'd kill her if he
caught sight of her; her heart clamoured it; her pulses thumped it in
her ears.

Had the girl been capable of it she could have killed him where he
crouched. She thought of it, but knew it was not in her to do it. And
yet Quintana had boasted that he meant to kill her father. That was
what terribly concerned her. And there must be a way to stop that
danger -- some way to stop it short of murder, -- a way to render this
man harmless to her and hers.

No, she could not kill him this way. Except in extremes she could not
bring herself to fire upon any human creature. And yet this man must be
rendered harmless -- somehow -- somehow -- ah!----

As the problem presented itself its solution flashed into her mind. Men
of the wilderness knew how to take dangerous creatures alive. To take a
dangerous and reasoning human was even less difficult, because reason
makes more mistakes than does instinct.

Stealthily, without a sound, the girl crept back through the shadows
over the damp pine needles, until, peering fearfully over her shoulder,
she saw the last ghost-tint of Quintana's fire die out in the terrific
dark behind.

Slowly, still, she moved until her sensitive feet felt the trodden path
from Drowned Valley.

Now, with torch flaring, she ran, carrying her rifle at a trail. Before
her, here and there, little night creatures fled -- a humped-up raccoon,
dazzled by the glare, a barred owl still struggling with its wood-rat
kill.

She ran easily, -- a