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Jean had seen him first； in time to leap like a panther into the shadow。
But he carried in his shoulder Queen's first bullet of that terrible
encounter。 Upon Gordon and Fredericks fell the brunt of Queen's
fusillade。 And they； shot to pieces； staggering and falling； held
passionate grip on life long enough to draw and still Queen's guns
and send him reeling off into the darkness of the forest。
Unarmed； and hindered by a painful wound； Jean had kept a vigil near
camp all that silent and menacing night。 Morning disclosed Gordon and
Fredericks stark and ghastly beside the burned…out camp…fire； their guns
clutched immovably in stiffened hands。 Jean buried them as best he could；
and when they were under ground with flat stones on their graves he knew
himself to be indeed the last of the Isbel clan。 And all that was wild
and savage in his blood and desperate in his spirit rose to make him
more than man and less than human。 Then for the third time during
these tragic last days the wolf…dog Shepp came to him。
Jean washed the wound Queen had given him and bound it tightly。
The keen pang and burn of the lead was a constant and all…powerful
reminder of the grim work left for him to do。 The whole world was no
longer large enough for him and whoever was left of the Jorths。 The
heritage of blood his father had bequeathed him； the unshakable love
for a worthless girl who had so dwarfed and obstructed his will and
so bitterly defeated and reviled his poor； romantic； boyish faith；
the killing of hostile men； so strange in its after effects； the
pursuits and fights； and loss of one by one of his confederatesthese
had finally engendered in Jean Isbel a wild； unslakable thirst； these
had been the cause of his retrogression； these had unalterably and
ruthlessly fixed in his darkened mind one fierce passionto live
and die the last man of that Jorth…Isbel feud。
At sunrise Jean left this camp； taking with him only a small knapsack
of meat and bread； and with the eager； wild Shepp in leash he set out
on Queen's bloody trail。
Black drops of blood on the stones and an irregular trail of footprints
proved to Jean that the gunman was hard hit。 Here he had fallen； or
knelt； or sat down； evidently to bind his wounds。 Jean found strips
of scarf； red and discarded。 And the blood drops failed to show on
more rocks。 In a deep forest of spruce； under silver…tipped spreading
branches； Queen had rested； perhaps slept。 Then laboring with dragging
steps； not improbably with a lame leg； he had gone on； up out of the
dark…green ravine to the open； dry； pine…tipped ridge。 Here he had
rested； perhaps waited to see if he were pursued。 From that point his
trail spoke an easy language for Jean's keen eye。 The gunman knew he
was pursued。 He had seen his enemy。 Therefore Jean proceeded with a
slow caution； never getting within revolver range of ambush； using all
his woodcraft to trail this man and yet save himself。 Queen traveled
slowly； either because he was wounded or else because he tried to ambush
his pursuer； and Jean accommodated his pace to that of Queen。 From noon
of that day they were never far apart； never out of hearing of a rifle shot。
The contrast of the beauty and peace and loneliness of the surroundings
to the nature of Queen's flight often obtruded its strange truth into
the somber turbulence of Jean's mind； into that fixed columnar idea
around which fleeting thoughts hovered and gathered like shadows。
Early frost had touched the heights with its magic wand。 And the forest
seemed a temple in which man might worship nature and life rather than
steal through the dells and under the arched aisles like a beast of prey。
The green…and…gold leaves of aspens quivered in the glades； maples in the
ravines fluttered their red…and…purple leaves。 The needle…matted carpet
under the pines vied with the long lanes of silvery grass； alike enticing
to the eye of man and beast。 Sunny rays of light； flecked with dust and
flying insects； slanted down from the overhanging brown…limbed；
green…massed foliage。 Roar of wind in the distant forest alternated
with soft breeze close at hand。 Small dove…gray squirrels ran all over
the woodland； very curious about Jean and his dog； rustling the twigs；
scratching the bark of trees； chattering and barking； frisky； saucy；
and bright…eyed。 A plaintive twitter of wild canaries came from the
region above the treetopsfirst voices of birds in their pilgrimage
toward the south。 Pine cones dropped with soft thuds。 The blue jays
followed these intruders in the forest； screeching their displeasure。
Like rain pattered the dropping seeds from the spruces。 A woody；
earthy； leafy fragrance； damp with the current of life； mingled with
a cool； dry； sweet smell of withered grass and rotting pines。
Solitude and lonesomeness； peace and rest； wild life and nature；
reigned there。 It was a golden…green region； enchanting to the gaze
of man。 An Indian would have walked there with his spirits。
And even as Jean felt all this elevating beauty and inscrutable spirit
his keen eye once more fastened upon the blood…red drops Queen had
again left on the gray moss and rock。 His wound had reopened。
Jean felt the thrill of the scenting panther。
The sun set； twilight gathered； night fell。 Jean crawled under a dense；
low…spreading spruce； ate some bread and meat； fed the dog； and lay down
to rest and sleep。 His thoughts burdened him； heavy and black as the
mantle of night。 A wolf mourned a hungry cry for a mate。 Shepp quivered
under Jean's hand。 That was the call which had lured him from the ranch。
The wolf blood in him yearned for the wild。 Jean tied the cowhide leash
to his wrist。 When this dark business was at an end Shepp could be free
to join the lonely mate mourning out there in the forest。 Then Jean slept。
Dawn broke cold； clear； frosty； with silvered grass sparkling； with a
soft； faint rustling of falling aspen leaves。 When the sun rose red
Jean was again on the trail of Queen。 By a frosty…ferned brook； where
water tinkled and ran clear as air and cold as ice； Jean quenched his
thirst； leaning on a stone that showed drops of blood。 Queen； too；
had to quench his thirst。 What good； what help； Jean wondered； could
the cold； sweet； granite water； so dear to woodsmen and wild creatures；
do this wounded； hunted rustler？ Why did he not wait in the open to
fight and face the death he had meted？ Where was that splendid and
terrible daring of the gunman？ Queen's love of life dragged him on
and on； hour by hour； through the pine groves and spruce woods； through
the oak swales and aspen glades； up and down the rocky gorges； around
the windfalls and over the rotting logs。
The time came when Queen tried no more ambush。 He gave up trying to
trap his pursuer by lying in wait。 He gave up trying to conceal his
tracks。 He grew stronger or； in desperation； increased his energy；
so that he redoubled his progress through the wilderness。 That；
at best； would count only a few miles a day。 And he began to circle
to the northwest； back toward the deep canyon where Blaisdell and Bill
Isbel had reached the end of their trai