were following, ever following behind him, reached it; their endurance
was as great as his, their woods-craft was as sly as his.

A fate was closing on Joe Lorey. The march of civilization was, indeed,
advancing toward his mountain fastnesses at last. And nothing stays the
march of civilization.




CHAPTER VIII


The afternoon was waning as Joe climbed a sudden rise and saw before him
Layson's camp.

Through a cleft in the guardian range the sun's rays penetrated red and
fiery. Already the quick chill of the coming evening had begun to
permeate the air. A hawk, sailing from a day of foraging among the
hen-yards of the distant valley, flew heavily across the sky, burdened
with plunder for its little ones, nested at the top of a black stub on
the mountain-side. Squirrels were home-going after a busy day among the
trees. The mournful barking of young foxes, anxious for their dinners,
thrilled the air with sounds of woe. Among the smaller birds the early
nesters were already twittering in minor among the trees and thickets; a
mountain-eagle cleft the air in the hawk's trail, so high that only a
keen eye could have caught sight of him. Daylight insects were beginning
to abate their clamor, while their fellows of the night were tuning for
the evening concert. Mournfully, and very faintly, came a locomotive's
wail from the far valley.