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He chose a rough crash towel, slipped on a pair of Howard's

moccasins, and went down to the river through an ambient that had

the sparkle and exhilaration of champagne. The mountain air was

still finely crisp with the frost, in spite of the sun warmth

that was beginning to mellow it. Flinging aside the Indian

blanket he had caught up before leaving the cabin, he stood for

an instant on the bank, a human being with the physical poise,

compactness, and lithe-muscled smoothness of a tiger.

Even as he plunged a rifle cracked. While he dived through the

air, before the shock of the icy water tingled through him, he

was planning his escape. The opposite bank rose ten feet above

the stream. He kept under the water until he came close to this,

then swam swiftly along it with only his head showing, so as to

keep him out of sight as much as possible.