Zane's bronzed face was hard and tense, expressive of an indomitable will; Wetzel's was coldly dark, with fateful resolve, as if his decree of vengeance, once given, was as immutable as destiny.

The big, horny hands gripped in a viselike clasp born of fierce passion, but no word was spoken.
Far to the west somewhere, a befrilled and bedizened renegade pursued the wild tenor of his ways; perhaps, even now steeping his soul in more crime, or staining his hands a deeper red, but sleeping or waking, he dreamed not of this deadly compact that meant his doom.
The two hunters turned their stern faces toward the west, and passed silently down the ridge into the depths of the forest.

Darkness found them within rifle-shot of the Village of Peace.

With the dog creeping between them, they crawled to a position which would, in daylight, command a view of the clearing.

Then, while one stood guard, the other slept.
When morning dawned they shifted their position to the top of a low, fern-covered cliff, from which they could see every movement in the village.