Again, it seemed as if quarrelling had broken out among the boulders—­quarrels that changed to girlish laughter and distant choruses.  Once his mind reverted to the note he had sent by Blakeman; he wondered what effect the news had had upon Alice.  When he faced her again would he have to go through what he had gone through before? or would she come to her senses, and be once more the loyal, loving wife she had always been until—­No; he would not go into that.  Then Margaret’s eyes looked into his.  Again he felt her arms about his neck; the coo and gurgle of her voice, and laughter in his ears.  Here she, at least, would be happy, and here, too, they could have those long days together which he had always promised himself, and which his life in the Street made impossible.

He rose to stretch his legs.  As he did so the strange fascination of the mountain torrent—­fascination that grew into a stranger feeling of isolation, almost of fear, took possession of him.  He knew the trapper was somewhere, but half a mile above him.  He was glad of this unseen companionship, and yet he realized that he was helpless to find his way back to the shanty.  Big Shanty Brook had lost men before, and could again.

Suddenly the hoarse bellowing of a hound brought him again to his feet.

“Oo—­oo—­wah!” it rang over the roar; then the baying grew fainter from far up under the black slides as the dog turned in his course.

At this instant he became conscious of a presence which he could not at first make out—­but something alive—­something that moved—­stood still—­still as the tree behind which it slunk—­and moved again.  He grasped his Winchester and peered ahead, straining his eyes.  Before him, barely thirty yards away, stood a man, the like of whom he had never seen before.  Gaunt, hollow-eyed, unshorn, his matted beard and hair covered by a ragged slouch hat.  Resting in the hollow of his arm was a rifle, and around his waist a belt of cartridges.  That he had not seen Thayor was evident from the way he stood listening to the baying of the hound, his hand cupped to his ear.

Suddenly the figure crouched; sank to the ground and rolled behind a fallen log.  At the same instant the old dog bounded out of the bushes and sprang straight at where the man lay concealed.

Thayor waited, not daring to breathe.  The old dog had evidently lost the deer tracks.

Thayor settled once more in his place, now that the mystery was explained; looked his rifle over, laid it within instant reach of his hand and gave a low cough in the direction of the concealed figure.  Should the deer charge this way it was just as well to let the man know where he sat, or he might stop a stray bullet.  Quick as the answering flash of a mirror a line of light glinted along the barrel of a rifle resting on the fallen log, its muzzle pointed straight at him.

Thayor shrank behind the drift and uttered a yell.  Almost every year someone had been mistaken for a deer and shot.