George Tracy Marsh

“ Lifting his moccasined feet like a fox on the trail of a snowshoe rabbit, Garnier cut back from the river, then turned downstream. He had not traveled far when suddenly a sound from the direction of the river flattened him to the ground, ears straining, every nerve alive.
Shortly the noise was repeated. The lean face of the outlaw shaped a look of disgust. It was the unmistakable chuck of an ax. His caution was needless. His enemy was making camp.
Moving out to the river shore the half-breed saw, a hundred yards downstream on the opposite bank, the hunter of men calmy boiling his kettle. ”

“ Garnier ground his teeth in disgust for not having shot his man when the chance offered. Now at any moment the owl might wake the sleeper. He must move fast. Swiftly the half-breed crawled to within a few feet of his man. The policeman slept on his back, half covered by his blanket, with the light from the stars full on his face.
Despite the stubble of beard, it was clearly the face of a young man, drawn lean with the hardships of the long trail. On one side, from cheek-bone to ear, the sleeper’s face was furrowed by a deep red scar. Death had once missed him by a hair. ”

“ The half-breed was so near now that he could have touched his man with the muzzle of his rifle. The night was not cold, and the shirt of the policeman lay open at the neck, exposing his bronzed throat. Garnier rose to his knees, thrusting his rifle before him, then changed his mind, and reaching back with his right hand, drew the knife in his belt. He would kill this man as he had killed the other who had made him an outlaw—as he had killed more than one enemy in that far land overseas. ”