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aving milled the horses to his satisfaction Flash came back to camp and sat down close to Moran, listening gravely while the men discussed the real purpose of their hunt.

Moran was no manhunter, as he had told Vermont. It was something which ordinarily held no appeal for him, this tracking down his fellowmen. But Moran loved this hundred mile stretch of wilderness, almost untouched by the hand of man, in which he had spent so many pleasant months in the past few years. It was for him the most beautiful land in creation, the wonder spot of the world. The fact that it had become the stronghold of murderers and thieves was in itself sufficient justification for his helping to stamp them out. Primarily, it was something more than that, something even deeper and stronger—his love for Betty, which had led him to commit himself to this course. Many times a day a wave of pure