The Flaming Forest | Page 4

under
him. The wash sand that covered it like a carpet was not more than four
or five inches deep. He could not dig in. There was not enough of it
within reach to scrape up as a protection. And his enemy, a hundred
yards or so away, was a determined wretch--and the deadliest shot he
had ever known.
Three times Carrigan had made experiments to prove this, for he had in
mind a sudden rush to the shelter of the timber. Three times he had
raised the crown of his hat slightly above the top of the rock, and three
times the marksmanship of the other had perforated it with neatness
and dispatch. The third bullet had carried his hat a dozen feet away.
Whenever he showed a patch of his clothing, a bullet replied with
unerring precision. Twice they had drawn blood. And the humor faded
out of Carrigan's eyes.
Not long ago he had exulted in the bigness and glory of this country of
his, where strong men met hand to hand and eye to eye. There were the
other kind in it, the sort that made his profession of manhunting a thing
of reality and danger, but he expected these--forgot them--when the
wilderness itself filled his vision. But his present situation was
something unlike anything that had ever happened in his previous
experience with the outlawed. He had faced dangers. He had fought.
There were times when he had almost died. Fanchet, the half-breed
who had robbed a dozen wilderness mail sledges, had come nearest to
trapping him and putting him out of business. Fanchet was a desperate
man and had few scruples. But even Fanchet--before he was
caught--would not have cornered a man with such bloodthirsty

unfairness as Carrigan found himself cornered now. He no longer had a
doubt as to what was in the other's mind. It was not to wound and make
merely helpless. It was to kill. It was not difficult to prove this. Careful
not to expose a part of his arm or shoulder, he drew a white
handkerchief from his pocket, fastened it to the end of his rifle, and
held the flag of surrender three feet above the rock. And then, with
equal caution, he slowly thrust up a flat piece of shale, which at a
distance of a hundred yards might appear as his shoulder or even his
head. Scarcely was it four inches above the top of the rock before there
came the report of a rifle, and the shale was splintered into a hundred
bits.
Carrigan lowered his flag and gathered himself in tighter. The accuracy
of the other's marksmanship was appalling. He knew that if he exposed
himself for an instant to use his own rifle or the heavy automatic in his
holster, he would be a dead man before he could press a trigger. And
that time, he felt equally sure, would come sooner or later. His muscles
were growing cramped. He could not forever double himself up like a
four-bladed jackknife behind the altogether inefficient shelter of the
rock.
His executioner was hidden in the edge of the timber, not directly
opposite him, but nearly a hundred yards down stream. Twenty times
he had wondered why the fiend with the rifle did not creep up through
that timber and take a good, open pot-shot at him from the vantage
point which lay at the end of a straight line between his rock and the
nearest spruce and balsam. From that angle he could not completely
shelter himself. But the man a hundred yards below had not moved a
foot from his ambush since he had fired his first shot. That had come
when Carrigan was crossing the open space of soft, white sand. It had
left a burning sensation at his temple-- half an inch to the right and it
would have killed him. Swift as the shot itself, he dropped behind the
one protection at hand, the up-jutting shoulder of shale.
For a quarter of an hour he had been making efforts to wriggle himself
free from his bulky shoulder-pack without exposing himself to a
coup-de-grace. At last he had the thing off. It was a tremendous relief

when he thrust it out beside the rock, almost doubling the size of his
shelter. Instantly there came the crash of a bullet in it, and then another.
He heard the rattle of pans, and wondered if his skillet would be any
good after today.
For the first time he could wipe the sweat from his face and stretch
himself. And also he could think. Carrigan possessed an unalterable
faith in the infallibility of the mind. "You can do anything with the
mind," was his code. "It is better than a good gun."
Now that he