Three or four times a day he would make the trip, and along the path he set a few snares in which he caught rabbits for food.

Each night he made his bed in a crevice among the rocks at the foot of the Chute.

At the end of a week the old Jim Kent was dead.

Even O'Connor would not have recognized him with his shaggy growth of beard, his hollow eyes, and the sunken cheeks which the beard failed to hide.
And the fighting spirit in him also was dead.

Once or twice there leaped up in him a sudden passion demanding vengeance upon the accursed Law that was accountable for the death of Marette, but even this flame snuffed itself out quickly.
And then, on the eighth day, he saw the edge of a thing that was almost hidden under an overhanging bank.