God!"

Staring at her he slowly disengaged his pack, let it fall behind him on
the pine needles; rested his rifle on it; slipped out his mackinaw and
laid that across his rifle -- always keeping his brilliant eyes on her.

His lips tightened, the muscles in his face grew tense; his eyes became
blazing insult.

For an instant he stood there, unencumbered, a wiry, graceful shape in
his woollen breeches, leggings, and grey shirt open at the throat. Then
he took a step toward her. And the girl watched him, fascinated.

One pace, two, a third, a fourth -- the girl's involuntary cry echoed
the stumbling crash of the man thrashing, clawing, scrambling in the
clenched jaws of the bear-trap amid a whirl of flying pine needles.

He screamed once, tried to rise, turned blindly to seize the jaws that
clutched him; and suddenly crouched, loose-jointed, cringing like a
trapped wolf -- the true fatalist among our lesser brothers.

Eve picked up her rifle. She was trembling violently. Then, mastering
her emotion, she walked over to the pack, placed Quintana's rifle and
mackinaw in it, coolly hoisted it to her shoulders and buckled it there.

Over her shoulder she kept an eye on Quintana who crouched where he had
fallen, unstirring, his deadly eyes watching her.

She placed the muzzle of her rifle against his stomach, rested it so,
holding it with one hand, her finger at the trigger.

At her brief order he turned out both breeches pockets. She herself
stooped and drew the Spanish clasp-knife from its sheath at his belt,
took a pistol from the holster, another out of his hip pocket. Reaching
up and behind her, she dropped these into the pack.

"Maybe," she said slowly, "your ankle is broken. I'll send somebody
from Ghost Lake to find you. But whether you've a broken bone or not
you'll not go very far, Quintana. ... After I'm gone you'll be able to
free yourself. But you can't get away. You'll be followed and caught.
... So if you can walk at all you'd better go in to Ghost Lake an give
yourself up. ... It's that or starvation. ... You've got a watch. ...
Don't stir or touch that trap for half an hour. ... And that's all."

As she moved away toward the Drowned Valley trail she looked back at
him. His face was bloodless but his black eyes blazed.

"If ever you come into this forest again," she said, "my father will
surely kill you."

To her horror Quintana slowly grinned at her. Then, still grinning, he
placed th