As the man on the trail drew nearer, the watcher on the rocks above involuntarily glanced toward the distant Forest Ranger; then back to the—­as he rightly guessed—­escaped convict.

There are, no doubt, many moments in the life of a man like James Rutlidge when, however bad or dominated by evil influences he may be, he feels strongly the impulse of pity and the kindly desire to help.  Undoubtedly, James Rutlidge inherited from his father those tendencies that made him easily ruled by his baser passions.  His character was as truly the legitimate product of the age, of the social environment, and of the thought that accepts such characters.  What he might have been if better born, or if schooled in an atmosphere of moral and intellectual integrity, is an idle speculation.  He was what his inheritance and his life had made him.  He was not without impulses for good.  The pitiful, hunted creature, creeping so wearily along the trail, awoke in this man of the accepted culture of his day a feeling of compassion, and aroused in him a desire to offer assistance.  For the legal aspect of the case, James Rutlidge had all the indifference of his kind, who imbibe contempt for law with their mother’s milk.  For the moment he hesitated.  Then, as the figure below passed from his sight, under the point of the spur, he slipped quietly down the mountainside, and, a few minutes later, met the convict face to face.

At the leveled rifle and the sharp command, “Hands up,” the poor fellow halted with a gesture of tragic despair.  An instant they stood; then the hunted one turned impulsively toward the canyon that, here, lies almost a sheer thousand feet below.

James Rutlidge spoke sharply.  “Don’t do that.  I’m not an officer.  I want to help you.”

The convict turned his hunted, fearful, starving face in doubtful bewilderment toward the speaker.

The man with the gun continued, “I got the drop on you to prevent accidents—­until I could explain—­that’s all.”  He lowered the rifle.

The other went a staggering step forward.  “You mean that?” he said in a harsh, incredulous whisper.  “You—­you’re not playing with me?”

“Why should I want to play with you?” returned the other, kindly.  “Come, let’s get off the trail.  I have something to eat, up there.”  He led the way back to the place where he had left his lunch.

Dropping down upon the ground, the starving man seized the offered food with an animal-like cry; feeding noisily, with the manner of a famished beast.  The other watched with mingled pity and disgust.

Presently, in stammering, halting phrases, but in words that showed no lack of education, the wretched creature attempted to apologize for his unseemly eagerness, and endeavored to thank his benefactor.  “I suppose, sir, there is no use trying to deny my identity,” he said, when James Rutlidge had again assured him of his kindly interest.

“Not at all,” agreed the other, “and, so far as I am concerned, there is no reason why you should.”