the Italian laid one long supple hand on the

  He lay along the ground and rested his rifle on a rock. But Morani, having suffered helplessly for a whole season at the hands of this nimble-tongued comrade, saw his chance. Before Werner realised his plan, the Italian laid one long supple hand on the stock and wrenched it away. In his left hand gleamed the hovering stiletto.   "No rifle," he rasped. "I watch-a you better." He held the gun behind his back.   For a mad moment Werner thought of hurling himself on his leering enemy, but the knife waved before his eyes. No chance there. An overwhelming sense of hopelessness, of friendlessness, sent him cringing to Morani's feet. The Italian, gloating, leaned forward and prodded with the stiletto. Werner, beside himself now with terror, leaped up and ran a few yards. But the smirking face of the Italian followed. In that direction lay speedy death.   Trembling, Werner sank to his knees like a whipped dog. On his knees he crept on and on. And above him hung those gloating eyes and the threatening stiletto. Urged by that smirk of death the cowering man crept forward. There was blood now on his torn knees and hands, but he did not feel it. Only he must crawl on and on before the horrible Nemesis at his back.   Neither noticed where their path led. They reached the end of the trees. The open ahead promised Werner greater freedom of flight. Morani was blind to everything but the terror of his old enemy. With twisted head Werner moved out from the trees. Something loomed before him, blocking the way. A wall of loose sand! With a gasp he raised his eyes.