y of
that slim girl, but because Hank was something concrete, something
which Jack could beat with his fists and that could give back blow for
blow. Too long had he waged an unequal conflict with his own thoughts,
his aloneness; with regrets and soul hunger and idleness. When he had
spent his strength and most of his rage together, he let Hank go and
felt tenderly his own bruised knuckles.

He never knew how close he was to death in the next five minutes,
while Hank was saddling up to go. For Hank's fingers went several
times to his rifle and hovered there, itching to do murder, while
Hank's mind revolved the consequences. Murder would be
madness--suicide, practically. The boy would be missed when he did not
answer the telephone. Some one would be sent up from the Forest
Service and the murder would be discovered, unless--unless Hank could
hide the body. There was the lake--but the lake was so clear! Besides,
there was always the chance at this season of the year that some
tourist would be within sight. Some tourist might even hear the shot.
It would be risky--too risky. Like Jack's, his rage cooled while he
busied himself mechanically with saddling his horse. After all, Hank
was not criminally inclined, except as anger drove him. He set the
pack-saddle and empty sacks on the pack horse, led his horse a few
feet farther away and mounted, scowling.

In the saddle he turned and looked for the first time full at Jack.
"You think you're darn smart!" he snarled wryly because of a cut lip
that had swollen all on one side. "You may think you're smart, but
they's another day comin'. You wait--that's all I got to say!"

It did not make him feel any better when Jack laughed suddenly and
loud. "_R-r-r-evenge_! By my heart's blood, I shall have r-r-evenge!"
he intoned mockingly. "Gwan outa my sight, Hank. You ain't making any
hit with me at all. _Scat!"_

"All right fer you!" Hank grumbled, in the futile repartee of the
stupid. "You think you're smart, but I don't. You wait!" Then he rode
away down the trail, glowering at the world through puffy lids and
repeating to himself many crushing things he wished he had thought to
say to Jack.

Jack himself had recourse to a small bottle of iodine left there by a
predecessor, painting his scratches liberally, and grinning at himself
in the little mirror because Hank had not once landed a bruising blow
on his face. After that he washed the dishes and went to the spring
for a bucket o