ad fallen, and one of the bowlders lay tilted in
such a way as to roof in a sort of cave, the entrance to which was
not higher than a man's knee. De Spain crawled into this refuge. He
conceived that from this high, open ledge he could show a small
signal-fire at night, and if it were answered by his enemies he had a
semblance of a retreat under the fallen rock, a hunting-knife, and one
lone cartridge to protect himself with. A mountain-lion might have to
be reckoned with; and if a pursuer should follow him under the rock
his only chance would lie in getting hold, after a fight, of the man's
loaded revolver or ammunition-belt. Such a hope involved a great deal
of confidence, but de Spain was an optimist--most railroad men are.

The outlook was, in truth, not altogether cheerful--some would have
called it, for a wounded man, desperate--but it had some slight
consolations and de Spain was not given to long-range forebodings. The
rising sun shone in a glory of clearness, and the cool night air
rolling up the mountain was grateful and refreshing. Lying flat on the
rock, he stretched his head forward and drank deeply of the ice-cold
pool beside which he lay. The violent exertion of reaching the height
had started the ruptured artery anew, and his first work was crudely
to cleanse the wound and attempt to rebandage it. He was hungry, but
for this there was only one alleviation--sleep--and, carefully
effacing all traces of his presence on the ledge, he crawled into his
rock retreat and fell again into a heavy slumber.

It was this repose that proved his undoing. He woke to consciousness
so weak he could scarcely lift his head. It was still day. A consuming
thirst assailed him, but he lacked the strength to crawl out of his
cave, and, looking toward his bandaged foot, he was shocked at the
sight of how it had bled while he slept. When he could rally from his
discouragement he rewound the bandages and told himself what a fool he
had been to drag his foot up the rocks before the wound had had any
chance to heal. He resolved, despite his thirst, to lie still all day
and give the artery absolute quiet. It required only a little
stoicism; the stake was life.

Toward afternoon his restlessness increased, but he clung to his
resolve to lie still. By evening he was burning with thirst, and when
morning came after a feverish night, with his head on fire and his
mouth crusted dry, he concluded rightly that one or both of his wounds
had