that there lived men so fiendish as to condemn him to this sort of death?  Why had not his enemies killed him out among the rocks?  That would have been easier—­quicker—­less troublesome.  Why did they wish to torture him?  What terrible thing had he done?  Was he mad—­mad—­and this all a terrible nightmare, a raving find unreal contortion of things in his brain?  In this hour of death question after question raced through his head, and he answered no one of them.  He sat still for a time, scarcely breathing.  There was no sound, save the beating of his own heart.  Then there came another, almost unheard at first, faint, thrilling, maddening.

Tick—­tick—­tick!

It was the beating of his watch.  A spasm of horror seized him.

What time was it?  The coyote was to be fired at nine o’clock.  It was four when he left his cabin.  How long had he been unconscious?  Was it time now—­now?  Was MacDonald’s finger already reaching out to that little white button which would send him into eternity?

He struggled again, gnashing furiously at the thing which covered his mouth, tearing the flesh of his wrists as he twisted at the ropes which bound him, choking himself with his efforts to loosen the thong about his neck.  Exhausted again, he sank back, panting, half dead.  As he lay with closed eyes a little of his reason asserted itself.  After all, was he such a coward as to go mad?

Tick—­tick—­tick!

His watch was beating at a furious rate.  Was something wrong with it?  Was it going too fast?  He tried to count the seconds, but they raced away from him.  When he looked again his gaze fell on the little yellow tongue of flame in the lantern globe.  It was not the steady, unwinking eye of a few minutes before.  There was a sputtering weakness about it now, and as he watched the light grew fainter and fainter.  The flame was going out.  A few minutes more and he would be in darkness.  At first the significance of it did not come to him; then he straightened himself with a jerk that tightened the thong about his neck until it choked him.  Hours must have passed since the lantern had been placed on that rock, else the oil would not be burned out of it now!

For the first time Howland realized that it was becoming more and more difficult for him to get breath.  The thing about his neck was tightening, slowly, inexorably, like a hot band of steel, and suddenly, because of this tightening, he found that he had recovered his voice.

“This damned rawhide—­is pinching—­my Adam’s apple—­”

Whatever had been about his mouth had slipped down and his words sounded hollow and choking in the rock-bound chamber.  He tried to raise his voice in a shout, though he knew how futile his loudest shrieks would be.  The effort choked him more.  His suffering was becoming excruciating.  Sharp pains darted like red-hot needles through his limbs, his back tortured him, and his head ached as though a knife had cleft the base of his skull.  The strength of his limbs was leaving him.  He no longer felt any sensation in his cramped feet.  He measured the paralysis creeping up his legs inch by inch, driving the sharp pains before it—­and then a groan of horror rose to his lips.