A great wave went over Wayland of something he had never before known. It pounded at his temples. It set his heart going in a force pump. It blew his lungs out, and set the whip cord muscles itching to go--to go--he wanted to shout with joy of power--power that pursued and caught and crushed--and trembled with overplus of intoxicated strength--He knew if he could lay his hand on Crime at that moment he could crush the life out of the thing's throat; and there was a parchedness that was not thirst, a tingling to clinch that Criminal Thing menacing the Nation, to clinch and strangle it to a death not honored in the code of white-corpuscled anaemic study-chair reformers. "Well," he said, as the other came limping down to the shore, "I didn't think there could be enough of the savage in me to enjoy a manhunt." The old Briton looked queerly at the young fellow. "A'm beginnin'--," he said slowly, "A'm beginnin' to understand y'r lynch law in this country--an' the _why_." "What do you make of it?" asked Wayland, too excited to notice the other's abstraction. "A'm beginnin' to understand if y' monkey with the law much longer in this land, the whole Nation will go locoed like you, Wayland--with a blood thirst for righteousness--a white passion for the square deal--an' God pity--that day!" The fugitives had reached the far shore of the lake, landed and were riding off when a second thought seemed to bring one man back to the water's edge. He stooped, heaved up a rock, threw it through the bottom of the old punt. "You'll have to do better than that to keep me from crossing," said Wayland. The fellow was aiming his rifle. Wayland and Matthews jumped behind the big hemlocks. "He's fulling a skin bag wi' water." "Then, they intend to cross the Desert," inferred Wayland; "but they'll have to go farther to slip me." One of the riders was scanning back with a field glass. "Looking for number six--Of all the colossal effrontery--they are actually going to speak." The fellow nearest shore lowered his rifle and trumpeted both hands. "Speak louder--can't hear ye." Matthews had gone to the edge of the lake. The answer came faint and muffled. "Where's--our--pardner--?" "Hold up y'r hands--all five," roared back Matthews. The arms of all but the hurt man went above heads, hands facing. "Y'll find y'r man's carcass in the bloody mess where ye sent the sheep--! d' y'--see yon eagle?--'Tis pickin' his bones--" roared Matthews through funnelled palms; and both jumped back to the shelter of the hemlocks. The outlaws drew together to confer. "They don't believe us," said Wayland. "They'll camp in the timber over there for the night and wait. All right, my friends! You'll not have to wait long; no longer than it takes you, sir, to find our pack mule and the stray bronchs, while I build a raft. We can't cross the lower end for the moraine; and we can't cross the upper end for the ice; and it's too cold to risk swimming."