He, James Kent, was no longer the hunter, but the hunted, and all the tricks which he had mastered must now be worked the other way.
His woodcraft, his cunning, the fine points he had learned of the game of one-against-one would avail him but little when it came to the witness chair and a trial.
The open window was his first inspiration.

Adventure had been the blood of his life.

And out there, behind the green forests rolling away like the billows of an ocean, lay the greatest adventure of all.

Once in those beloved forests covering almost the half of a continent, he would be willing to die if the world beat him.

He could see himself playing the game of the hunted as no other man had ever played it before.