With a gloomy eye he watched John Gaspar drop on his knees at the base of the designated shrub and raise the ax slowly—­in both hands!  Not only that, but the head remained poised, hung over the schoolteacher’s shoulder.  When the blow fell, instead of striking solidly on the trunk of the bush, it crashed futilely through a branch.  Riley Sinclair drew closer to watch.  It was excusable, perhaps, for a man to be unable to ride or to shoot or to face other men.  But it was inconceivable that any living creature should be so clumsy with a common ax.

To his consummate disgust the work of Jig became worse and worse.  No two blows fell on the same spot.  The trunk of the little tree became bruised, but even when the edge of the ax did not strike on a branch, at most it merely sliced into the outer surface of the wood and left the heart untouched.  It was a process of gnawing, not of chopping.  To crown the terrible exhibition, Jig now rested from his labors and examined the palms of his hands, which had become a bright red.

“Gimme the ax,” said Sinclair shortly.  He dared not trust himself to more speech and, snatching it from the hands of Cold Feet, buried the blade into the very heart of the trunk.  Another blow, driven home with equal power and precision on the opposite side, made the tree shudder to its top, and the third blow sent it swishing to the earth.

This brought a short cry of admiration and wonder from the schoolteacher, for which Sinclair rewarded him with one glance of contempt.  With sweeping strokes he cleared away the half-dead branches.  Presently the trunk was naked.  On it Riley now concentrated his attack, making the short ax whistle over his shoulders.  The trunk of the shrub was divided into handy portions as if by magic.

Still John Gaspar stood by, gaping, apparently finding nothing to do.  And this with a camp barely started!

It was easier to do oneself, however, than to give directions to such stupidity.  Sinclair swept up an armful of wood and strode off to the spot he had selected for the campfire, near the place where the spring water ran into a small pool.  A couple of big rocks thrown in place furnished a windbreak.  Between them he heaped dead twigs, and in a moment the flame was leaping.

As soon as the fire was lighted they became aware that the night was well nigh upon them.  Hitherto the day had seemed some distance from its final end, for there was still color in the sky, and the tops of the western mountains were still bright.  But with the presence of fire brightness, the rest of the world became dim.  The western peaks were ghostly; the sky faded to the ashes of its former splendor; and Jig found himself looking down upon thick night in the lower valleys.  He saw the eyes of the horses glistening, as they raised their heads to watch.  The gaunt form of Sinclair seemed enormous.  Stooping about the fire, enormous shadows drifted above and behind him.  Sometimes the light flushed over his lean face and glinted in his eyes.  Again his head was lost in shadow, and perhaps only the active, reaching hands were illuminated brightly.