moss behind his shoulders, the bandage, and certain visions that were reforming themselves in his brain convinced him.  A woman had shot him.  She had worked like the very devil to kill him.  And afterward she had saved him!  He grinned.  It was final proof that his mind hadn’t been playing tricks on him.  No one but a woman would have been quite so unreasonable.  A man would have completed the job.

He began to look for her up and down the white strip of sand.  And in looking he saw the gray and silver flash of the hard-working sandpiper.  He chuckled, for he was exceedingly comfortable, and also exhilaratingly happy to know that the thing was over and he was not dead.  If the sandpiper had been a man, he would have called him up to shake hands with him.  For if it hadn’t been for the bird getting squarely in front of him and giving him away, there might have been a more horrible end to it all.  He shuddered as he thought of the mighty effort he had made to fire a shot into the heart of the balsam ambush—­and perhaps into the heart of a woman!

He reached for the pail and drank deeply of the water in it.  He felt no pain.  His dizziness was gone.  His mind had grown suddenly clear and alert.  The warmth of the water told him almost instantly that it had been taken from the river some time ago.  He observed the change in sun and shadows.  With the instinct of a man trained to note details, he pulled out his watch.  It was almost six o’clock.  More than three hours had passed since the sandpiper had got in front of his gun.  He did not attempt to rise to his feet, but scanned with slower and more careful scrutiny the edge of the forest and the river.  He had been mystified while cringing for his life behind the rock, but he was infinitely more so now.  Greater desire he had never had than this which thrilled him in these present minutes of his readjustment—­desire to look upon the woman again.  And then, all at once, there came back to him a mental flash of the other.  He remembered, as if something was coming back to him out of a dream, how the whimsical twistings of his sick brain had made him see two faces instead of one.  Yet he knew that the first picture of his mysterious assailant, the picture painted in his brain when he had tried to raise his pistol, was the right one.  He had seen her dark eyes aglow; he had seen the sunlit sheen of her black hair rippling in the wind; he had seen the white pallor in her face, the slimness of her as she stood over him in horror—­he remembered even the clutch of her white hand at her throat.  A moment before she had tried to kill him.  And then he had looked up and had seen her like that!  It must have been some unaccountable trick in his brain that had flooded her hair with golden fire at times.

His eyes followed a furrow in the white sand which led from where he sat bolstered against the tree down to his pack and the rock.  It was the trail made by his body when she had dragged him up to the shelter and coolness of the timber.  One of his laws of physical care was to keep himself trained down to a hundred and sixty, but he wondered how she had dragged up even so much as that of dead weight.  It had taken a great deal of effort.  He could see distinctly three different places in the sand where she had stopped to rest.