The Danger Trail | Page 8

aloud.
"You!" he exclaimed. "You--camping out here!" With a quick little
movement she came to him, still laughing with her eyes and lips, and
for an instant he held both her hands tight in his own. Her lovely face
was dangerously near to him. He felt the touch of her breath on his face,
for an instant caught the sweet scent of her hair. Never had he seen eyes
like those that glowed up at him softly, filled with the gentle starlight;
never in his life had he dreamed of a face like this, so near to him that it
sent the blood leaping through his veins in strange excitement. He held
the hands tighter, and the movement drew the girl closer to him, until
for no more than a breath he felt her against his breast. In that moment
he forgot all sense of time and place; forgot his old self--Jack
Howland--practical, unromantic, master-builder of railroads; forgot
everything but this presence of the girl, the warm pressure against his
breast, the lure of the great brown eyes that had come so unexpectedly
into his life. In another moment he had recovered himself. He drew a
step back, freeing the girl's hands.
"I beg your pardon," he said softly. His cheeks burned hotly at what he
had done, and turning squarely about he strode up the trail. He had not
taken a dozen paces, when far ahead of him he saw the red glow of a

fire. Then a hand caught his arm, clutching at it almost fiercely, and he
turned to meet the girl's face, white now with a strange terror.
"What is it?" he cried. "Tell me--"
He caught her hands again, startled by the look in her eyes. Quickly she
pulled herself away. A dozen feet behind her, in the thick shadows of
the forest trees, something took shape and movement. In a flash
Howland saw a huge form leap from the gloom and caught the gleam of
an uplifted knife. There was no time for him to leap aside, no time for
him to reach for the revolver which he carried in his pocket. In such a
crisis one's actions are involuntary, machine-like, as if life, hovering by
a thread, preserves itself in its own manner and without thought or
reasoning on the part of the creature it animates.
For an instant Howland neither thought nor reasoned. Had he done so
he would probably have met his mysterious assailant, pitting his naked
fists against the knife. But the very mainspring of his existence--which
is self-preservation--called on him to do otherwise. Before the startled
cry on his lips found utterance he flung himself face downward in the
snow. The move saved him, and as the other stumbled over his body,
pitching headlong into the trail, he snatched forth his revolver. Before
he could fire there came a roar like that of a beast from behind him and
a terrific blow fell on his head. Under the weight of a second assailant
he was crushed to the snow, his pistol slipped from his grasp, and two
great hands choked a despairing cry from his throat. He saw a face over
him, distorted with passion, a huge neck, eyes that named like angry
garnets. He struggled to free his pinioned arms, to wrench off the
death-grip at his throat, but his efforts were like those of a child against
a giant. In a last terrible attempt he drew up his knees inch by inch
under the weight of his enemy; it was his only chance, his only hope.
Even as he felt the fingers about his throat, sinking like hot iron into his
flesh, and the breath slipping from his body, he remembered this
murderous knee-punch taught to him by the rough fighters of the Inland
Seas, and with all the life that remained in him he sent it crushing into
the other's abdomen. It was a moment before he knew that it had been
successful, before the film cleared from his eyes and he saw his

assailant groveling in the snow. He rose to his feet, dazed and
staggering from the effect of the blow on his head and the murderous
grip at his throat. Half a pistol shot down the trail he saw indistinctly
the twisting of black objects in the snow, and as he stared one of the
objects came toward him.
"Do not fire, M'seur Howland," he heard a voice call. "It ees I--Jean
Croisset, a friend! Blessed Saints, that was--what you call heem?--close
heem?--close call?"
The half-breed's thin dark face came up smiling out of the white gloom.
For a moment Howland did not see him, scarcely heard his words.
Wildly he looked about him for the girl. She was gone.
"I happened here--just in time--with