"A man who doesn't know when he's beat is a fool.... But you can be sure of this: I'll be back!" He went, walking crookedly at first among the knee-high bushes; then growing straighter as he passed into the demesne of the tall, straight pines. Not swiftly, since there was no possibility of any swift play of muscles left within him; but steadily. "A man!" grunted Timber-Wolf. Whether in admiration or disgust, Lynette could not guess from his tone. He had his watch in the palm of his hand; her gaze was riveted on it. It seemed so tiny a thing in that great valley of his hand; a bauble. Yet its even more insignificant minute-hand was assuming the office of arbiter of human life; she knew that the moment the fifth minute was ticked off Bruce Standing, true to his sworn word, would relinquish her wrist just long enough to whip his rifle to his shoulder and fire ... in case the uncertain form of Babe Deveril, going up over the ridge, were still in sight. And she knew within her soul that just so sure as gun butt struck shoulder and finger found trigger, so sure would Babe Deveril toss his arms up and fall dead.... "Hurry, Kid ... you damn' fool ... _hurry_...." All the while Timber-Wolf was muttering and glaring at his watch and clinching her wrist; all the while forgetting that he held her. And, this also she knew, regretting that he had the job set before him of shooting down another man. Lynette, her whole body atingle, every sense keyed up to its highest stressing, knew as soon as did Bruce Standing when he was going to drop her wrist and jerk his gun up. The five minutes were passing; still, though at a distance far up on the ridge, seen only by glimpses now and then under the setting sun, Babe Deveril was driving on, a man half bereft of his sober senses, his brain reeling from savage blows and on fire with rage and mortification; they saw him among the pines; they lost him; they saw him again. Never once had he turned to look back. Yet it did not seem that he hastened.... Timber-Wolf, growling deep down in his throat, lifted his rifle. But Lynette, before the act, _knew_! She flung herself with sudden fury upon his uplifted arm; she caught it, and with the weight of her body dragged it down. He sought to fling her off; she wrapped both of her arms about his right arm; she jerked at it so that he could have no slightest hope of a steady aim.... He turned and looked down into her eyes; deep ... deep. For what seemed to her a long, long time he stood looking down into her eyes. Then, with sudden anger, he thrust her aside. Without looking to see if she had fallen or stumbled and run, he raised his rifle again. But just in time Babe Deveril was gone, over the ridge.... CHAPTER XII "And now that you're half scared to death, you'd like to make a man believe that you are not afraid of the devil himself!" She flashed a burning look at him; chokingly she cried: