THE TURNING point of Hoo's career came in the autumn, when the brush in the canyons rustled dryly and the hills, mowed close by the cattle, smoked under the wind as if burning. One midafternoon Hook rode the wind diagonally across the river mouth. His great eyes, focused for small things stirring in the dust and leaves, overlooked the large, slow movement of the farmer rising from the brush and lifting the two black eyes of his shotgun. Too late Hook saw and swerved. The surf muffled the reports, and, nearly without sound, Hook felt the minute whips of the first shot, and the astounding, breath-breaking blow of the second.