So Chad, with Jack drawn close to him, lay back, awe-stricken and with his face wet from mysterious tears.  The comfort of the childish self-pity that came with every thought of himself, wandering, a lost spirit along the mountain-tops, was gone like a dream and ready in his heart was the strong new purpose to strike into the world for himself.  He even took it as a good omen, when he rose, to find his fire quenched, the stopper of his powder-horn out, and the precious black grains scattered hopelessly on the wet earth.  There were barely more than three charges left, and something had to be done at once.  First, he must get farther away from old Nathan:  the neighbors might search for him and find him and take him back.

So he started out, brisk and shivering, along the ridge path with Jack bouncing before him.  An hour later, he came upon a hollow tree, filled with doty wood which he could tear out with his hands and he built a fire and broiled a little more bacon.

Jack got only a bit this time and barked reproachfully for more; but Chad shook his head and the dog started out, with both eyes open, to look for his own food.  The sun was high enough now to make the drenched world flash like an emerald and its warmth felt good, as Chad tramped the topmost edge of Pine Mountain, where the brush was not thick and where, indeed, he often found a path running a short way and turning into some ravine—­the trail of cattle and sheep and the pathway between one little valley settlement and another.  He must have made ten miles and more by noon—­for he was a sturdy walker and as tireless almost as Jack—­and ten miles is a long way in the mountains, even now.  So, already, Chad was far enough away to have no fear of pursuit, even if old Nathan wanted him back, which was doubtful.  On the top of the next point, Jack treed a squirrel and Chad took a rest and brought him down, shot through the head and, then and there, skinned and cooked him and divided with Jack squarely.

“Jack,” he said, as he reloaded his gun, “we can’t keep this up much longer.  I hain’t got more’n two more loads o’ powder here.”

And, thereupon, Jack leaped suddenly in the air and, turning quite around, lighted with his nose pointed, as it was before he sprang.  Chad cocked the old gun and stepped forward.  A low hissing whir rose a few feet to one side of the path and, very carefully, the boy climbed a fallen trunk and edged his way, very carefully, toward the sound:  and there, by a dead limb and with his ugly head reared three inches above his coil of springs, was a rattlesnake.  The sudden hate in the boy’s face was curious—­it was instinctive, primitive, deadly.  He must shoot off-hand now and he looked down the long barrel, shaded with tin, until the sight caught on one of the beady, unblinking eyes and pulled the trigger.  Jack leaped with the sound, in spite of Chad’s yell of warning, which was useless, for the ball had gone true and the poison was set loose in the black, crushed head.