To trail an enemy who is never without a rifle and the will to use it, requires courage and Indian cunning as well. Pete Bolduc had both, and after observing the many signs of a trapper’s presence in the swamp, he knew, after he crossed it and reached this lake, that somewhere on its shores, his enemy, McGuire, had his lair.

He paused at the outlet, as did Old Cy, to scan every rod of its rocky shores, not once, but a dozen times.

The sun was now halfway down. A mellow autumn haze softened the encircling mountains and the broad, frowning peak to the right. A gentle breeze rippled the upper end of the lake, and here, in the wild rice growing along its borders, stood a deer, belly-deep in the green growth.

No thought of the blessed harmony of lake, sky, and forest, or the sequestered beauty of this spot, came to the half-breed. Revenge and murder–twin demons of his nature–were in his heart, and the Indian cunning that made him hide while he watched for signs of his enemy. The bare peak overlooking the lake soon impressed him as a vantage point, and after a half-hour of watchful listening he laid his rifle across the thwart, handy to grasp on the instant, and, seizing his paddle once more, crossed the lake to the foot of the peak.

To hide his canoe here, ascend this with pack and rifle, was the next move of this human panther, and here in a sheltering crevasse he lay and watched for his enemy.

Two hours later, and just at sunset, McGuire returned to the lake.

As usual, he, too, paused at the outlet to scan its shores. He believed himself utterly secure here, and thought no human being was likely to find this lakelet. But for all that, he was watchful. Some exploring lumberman or some pioneer trapper might cross this vast swamp and find this lake during his absence.

A brief scrutiny assured him that he was still safe from human eyes, and he crossed the lake.

From the bare cliff a single keen and vengeful eye watched him.

As usual, also, McGuire made his landing at a convenient point, some fifty rods from his cave, and carried his canoe up and turned it over, back of a low-jutting ridge of slate. He skinned the half-dozen prizes his traps had secured that day and followed a shallow defile to his lair. Here his pelts were stretched, a slab of slate was lifted from its position in a deep, wide crevasse between two of these ledges, and McGuire crawled into his den.

Most of these movements were observed by the half-breed, who, watching ever while he plotted and planned how best to catch his enemy unawares, saw him emerge from amid the ledges again, go down to the lake, return with a pail of water, and vanish once more.

All this was a curious proceeding, for he, like Old Cy, had expected to find McGuire occupying some bark shelter, and even now he supposed there was one among this confusion of bare rocks.

Another surprise soon came to this distant watcher, for he now saw a thin column of smoke rise from a ledge and continue in varying volume until hidden by twilight.

And now, secure in his cave and quite unconscious of the watcher with murderous intent who had observed his actions, McGuire was enjoying himself. He had built a little slate fireplace within his cave. A funnel of the same easily fitted material carried the smoke up to a long, inch-wide fissure in the roof. He had a table of slate to eat from, handy by a bed filled with moss and dry grass, also pine knots for needed light.

Opening into this small cave was a lesser one, always cool and dry, for no rain nor melting snow could enter it, and here was McGuire’s pantry, and here also a half-dozen tin cans, safely hidden under a slab of slate, stuffed with gold and banknotes.

To still further protect this inner cave, he had fitted a section of slate to entirely fill its entrance.

When the last vestige of sunset had vanished and twinkling stars were reflected from the placid lake, the half-breed descended from his lookout point, and, launching his canoe, followed close to the shadowed shore and landed just above where McGuire disembarked. Indian that he was, he chose the hours of night and darkness to crawl up to the bark shelter which he expected to find, his intention being to thrust a rifle muzzle close to his enemy’s head and then pull the trigger.

But to do this required a long wait and extreme caution. His enemy surely had a camp-fire behind a ledge, and shelter as well. The smoke had seemed to rise out of a ledge, but certainly could not, and so–still unaware of McGuire’s position, yet sure that he was amid these ledges, and near a shelter–Pete grasped his rifle and crept ashore.

It was too early to surprise his enemy–time to fall asleep must be allowed. Yet so eager was the half-breed to deal death to him, that he must needs come here to wait. No chances must be taken when he did crawl up to his victim, for a false step or the rattle of a loose stone, or his form outlined against the starlit sky as he crawled over a ledge, might mean death to him instead of McGuire. And so, crouching safely in a dark nook above the landing, Pete waited, watched, and listened.

One hour passed–it seemed two–and then the half-breed crept stealthily up to where the smoke had been seen. Not by strides, or even steps, but as a panther would, lifting one foot and feeling where it would rest and then another, and all the while listening and advancing again.

It was McGuire’s habit, while staying here, to look at the weather prospects each night, and also to obtain a drink of cool lake water before going to sleep.

Often when the evenings were not too cold, he would sit by the lake shore for a half-hour, smoking and watching its starlit or moon-glittering surface, and listening to the calls of night prowlers.

In spite of being an outlaw, devoid of moral nature, and one who preyed upon his fellow-man, he was not without sentiment, and the wild grandeur of these enclosing mountains, and the sense of security they gave, were pleasant to him. His life had been a harsh and brutal one. He had dealt in man’s lust and love of liquor. He measured all humankind by his own standard of right and wrong, and believed that he must rob others or they would rob him. He had followed that belief implicitly from the start, and would so long as he lived. He felt that every man’s hand was against him, and no reproaches of conscience had resulted from his cold-blooded killing of an officer. Never once did the thought return of the few years when a woman’s hand sought his in tenderness, nor any sense of the unspeakable horror he had decreed for his own child.

So vile a wretch seemed unfit for God’s green earth; and yet the silence of night beside this lake, and the stars mirrored on its motionless surface, soothed and satisfied him.

He had now and then another impulse–to some day take his savings of many years, secreted here, and go to some other country, assume another name, and lead a different life.

And now, while an unsuspected enemy was waiting for him to enter a sleep that should know no waking, he left his cave and seated himself on a shelf-like projection close to the lake, which was deep here, and the ledge shore a sheer face rising some ten feet above the water.

One hour or more this strange compound of brute and man sat there contemplating the stars, and then he suddenly detected a sound–only a faint one, the mere click of one pebble striking another.

He arose and listened.

Soon another soft, crushing sound reached him. Some animal creeping along in the passage between the ledges, he thought.

He stepped quickly to the end of the shelf. On that instant a crouching form rose upward and confronted him.

He had one moment only, but enough to see a tall man a step below him, the next a flash of spitting fire, a stinging pain in one shoulder, and this human panther leaped upon McGuire!

But life was sweet, even to McGuire, and as he grasped and struck at this enemy in a blind instinct of self-preservation as both closed in a death-grapple, one instant of awful agony came to him as a knife entered his heart–a yell of mingled hate and deadly fear, as two bodies writhed on the narrow shelf, a plunging sound, as both struck the water below–and then silence.

Death and vengeance were clasped in one eternal embrace.