If only these human bloodhounds would swiftly close in on him! Let him fight to the last bitter gasp and have it over! But these hunters, eager as they were to get him, had care of their own skins. They took few risks. They had him cornered. It was the middle of the day, hot, dusty, oppressive, threatening storm. Like a snake Duane crawled into a little space in the darkest part of the thicket and lay still. Men had cut him off from the bluff, from the river, seemingly from all sides. But he heard voices only from in front and toward his left. Even if his passage to the river had not been blocked, it might just as well have been. “Come on fellers--down hyar,” called one man from the bluff. “Got him corralled at last,” shouted another. “Reckon ye needn't be too shore. We thought thet more'n once,” taunted another. “I seen him, I tell you.” “Aw, thet was a deer.” “But Bill found fresh tracks an' blood on the willows.” “If he's winged we needn't hurry.” “Hold on thar, you boys,” came a shout in authoritative tones from farther up the bluff. “Go slow. You-all air gittin' foolish at the end of a long chase.” “Thet's right, Colonel. Hold 'em back. There's nothin' shorer than somebody'll be stoppin' lead pretty quick. He'll be huntin' us soon!” “Let's surround this corner an' starve him out.” “Fire the brake.” How clearly all this talk pierced Duane's ears! In it he seemed to hear his doom. This, then, was the end he had always expected, which had been close to him before, yet never like now. “By God!” whispered Duane, “the thing for me to do now--is go out--meet them!” That was prompted by the fighting, the killing instinct in him. In that moment it had almost superhuman power. If he must die, that was the way for him to die. What else could be expected of Buck Duane? He got to his knees and drew his gun. With his swollen and almost useless hand he held what spare ammunition he had left. He ought to creep out noiselessly to the edge of the willows, suddenly face his pursuers, then, while there was a beat left in his heart, kill, kill, kill. These men all had rifles. The fight would be short. But the marksmen did not live on earth who could make such a fight go wholly against him. Confronting them suddenly he could kill a man for every shot in his gun. Thus Duane reasoned. So he hoped to accept his fate--to meet this end. But when he tried to step forward something checked him. He forced himself; yet he could not go. The obstruction that opposed his will was as insurmountable as it had been physically impossible for him to climb the bluff.