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A rope snaked forward and descended over the ranger's head, to be

jerked tight, with a suddenness that sent a pain like a knife

thrust through the wounded shoulder. The instinct for

self-preservation was already at work in him. He fought his left

arm free from the rope that pressed it to his side, and dived

toward the figure at the end of the rope. Even as he plunged, he

found time to be surprised that no revolver shot echoed through

the night, and to know that the reason was because his enemies

preferred to do their work in silence.

The man upon whom he leaped gave a startled oath and stumbled

backward over a root.

Fraser, his hand already upon the man's throat, went down too.

Upon him charged men from all directions. In the shadows, they

must have hampered each other, for the ranger, despite his

wound--his shoulder was screaming with pain--got to his knees,

and slowly from his knees to his feet, shaking the clinging

bodies from him.