The trail grew more intricate in the deep ferns; the friendly little footprint had vanished in this primeval wilderness.  As he pushed through the gorge, he could hear at last the roar of the North Fork forcing its way through the canyon that crossed the gorge at right angles.  At last he reached its current, shut in by two narrow precipitous walls that were spanned five hundred feet above by the stage road over a perilous bridge.  As he approached the gloomy canyon, he remembered that the river, seen from above, seemed to have no banks, but to have cut its way through the solid rock.

He found, however, a faint ledge made by caught driftwood from the current and the debris of the overhanging cliffs.  Again the narrow footprint on the ooze was his guide.  At last, emerging from the canyon, a strange view burst upon his sight.  The river turned abruptly to the right, and, following the mountain side, left a small hollow completely walled in by the surrounding heights.  To his left was the ridge he had descended from on the other side, and he now understood the singular detour he had made.  He was on the other side of the stage road also, which ran along the mountain shelf a thousand feet above him.  The wall, a sheer cliff, made the hollow inaccessible from that side.  Little hills covered with buckeye encompassed it.  It looked like a sylvan retreat, and yet was as secure in its isolation and approaches as the outlaw’s den that it was.

He was gazing at the singular prospect when a shot rang in the air.  It seemed to come from a distance, and he interpreted it as a signal.  But it was followed presently by another; and putting his hand to his hat to keep it from falling, he found that the upturned brim had been pierced by a bullet.  He stopped at this evident hint, and, taking his dispatch bag from his shoulder, placed it significantly upon a boulder, and looked around as if to await the appearance of the unseen marksman.  The rifle shot rang out again, the bag quivered, and turned over with a bullet hole through it!

He took out his white handkerchief and waved it.  Another shot followed, and the handkerchief was snapped from his fingers, torn from corner to corner.  A feeling of desperation and fury seized him; he was being played with by a masked and skillful assassin, who only waited until it pleased him to fire the deadly shot!  But this time he could see the rifle smoke drifting from under a sycamore not a hundred yards away.  He set his white lips together, but with a determined face and unfaltering step walked directly towards it.  In another moment he believed and almost hoped that all would be over.  With such a marksman he would not be maimed, but killed outright.

He had not covered half the distance before a man lounged out from behind the tree carelessly shouldering his rifle.  He was tall but slightly built, with an amused, critical manner, and nothing about him to suggest the bloodthirsty assassin.  He met Brice halfway, dropping his rifle slantingly across his breast with his hands lightly grasping the lock, and gazed at the young man curiously.