If he could find a light log it was within the bounds of possibility that he might ford the shallow water and bars of quicksand.

But not yet! Wearily, doggedly he faced about toward the bluff.
All that day and all that night, all the next day and all the next night, he stole like a hunted savage from river to bluff; and every hour forced upon him the bitter certainty that he was trapped.
Duane lost track of days, of events.

He had come to an evil pass.
There arrived an hour when, closely pressed by pursuers at the extreme southern corner of the brake, he took to a dense thicket of willows, driven to what he believed was his last stand.
If only these human bloodhounds would swiftly close in on him! Let him fight to the last bitter gasp and have it over! But these hunters, eager as they were to get him, had care of their own skins.

They took few risks.

They had him cornered.
It was the middle of the day, hot, dusty, oppressive, threatening storm.
Like a snake Duane crawled into a little space in the darkest part of the thicket and lay still.