Sleep came and brought him forgetfulness.  The fire sank to a lambent flicker above the white-flecked embers, the pines sang their mystic songs about him as a little breeze awoke, and their soft sighing was answered by the growl of the torrent far down in the ravine.  Now and then the horse stamped restlessly and tugged at the lariat that was pegged down within reach of Alton’s arm, and once came up and looked down on him.  Alton usually slumbered lightly in the bush, but man’s primitive instincts reassert themselves in the wilderness, and because it is possible that his senses were not wholly dormant and there was some subtle sympathy between him and the beasts that served him he did not awaken.

Then the horse grew restless and pricked its ears, stood still snorting, and backed away to the length of its tether as a face looked out from the undergrowth.  The sinking light of the fire was on it, and it was an evil face with the stamp of hunger on it, and malevolence in the staring eyes.  Again the horse snorted and trembled as an arm was thrust out of the bushes and something glinted in the hand, but Alton still lay motionless with the pack saddle under his shoulders.

Then a man crawled clear of the undergrowth, rose up, and stooped over the lariat with a knife in his hand.  He needed a horse badly, and one stroke with the blade would give him one; but he needed food and a saddle almost as much, and moving forward a few paces gazed at the sleeping man.  He saw the pack that had been seized to the saddle, and guessed that there were several days’ provisions inside it, while a wolfish gleam came into his eyes as he straightened himself and stood very still listening.  His garments hung in thorn-rent rags about him, weariness was in his very attitude, but his face had written on it the cunning and courage of desperation, for he had been hunted by tireless men who were then close behind him, and had travelled for the most part starving and without sleep.  With a good horse and provisions he could yet escape his enemies, and the man looked scarcely human as he stood watching the sleeper with a sullen glow in his eyes.

There was nothing audible but the sighing of the pines and the faint sound of breathing, and moving a pace nearer he stopped again.  The man he watched was very still, but a little breeze fanned the fire, and when the flickering radiance passed across his face the watcher almost betrayed himself with a cry as he recognized him.  There was only one course open to him now, and with the muscles of his right arm contracting and the lean soil-stained fingers he had clawed his way up the ravine with closing on the knife, he crept forward another pace.  He had no great fear of anything Horton and the ranchers could do without the help of this man who could condemn him, and he knew his capabilities.  Now one swift thrust would silence him forever, and once he could reach the railroad there was a man who for his own sake would help him safely out of the country with as many dollars as he might demand.  Still, he slipped out of the firelight next second, and the knife shook a little in his hand.