t retreat; and was it imagination, or
did he see, an eagle soaring, strong-winged, majestically out from the
rocks in curves of insolent power? Memory of the nauseating horror came
over him in a physical wave; and curiously enough, he kept hearing the
soft voice of the Senator's scoffing question: "Who of the public gives
one damn?" It was easier sitting smug inside the firing line. He knew
men in the Service who would call him a fool for going out on this
present quest; and he knew others whose jealousy would say it was all
done for self-advertising; and he knew also that he might be dismissed
for going out beyond the letter in order to fulfil the spirit of the law;
but preceding the horror of the precipice trail, was that other memory of
the dead boy lying at the foot of the Rim Rocks beside the writhing mass
of mutilated sheep.

The Ranger followed along the game trail. Who was it had said that the
only difference between charcoal and diamond was that one was soft and
the other hard? Was that what ailed the Nation? Had the fine edge of
citizenship dulled? Was the Nation losing the fine edge of distinction
between right and wrong?

Another little flutter of wind set the restless mists boiling.

"Strange it is hot so early," thought Wayland. Fir trees stood out from
the shifting gray haze. Among them, did he see shadows moving? They
might be deer coming down to water. Involuntarily, he stepped behind
some alder brush off the trail. Another flutter of wind thinning the
turbid mist. There was a whiff of camp smoke. Through the mist, he
could make out figures not a hundred yards away--five horses ready for
travel, four men clumsily lifting a fellow in cow-boy slicker into his
saddle. The man fell forward over the pummel. The group seemed
undecided what to do. Then, picked out--distinct--deliberate--coming
over the stones from the lake side--leisurely, lazily, careful, soft
footsteps with rests between--The Ranger would not have been surprised to
see the missing outlaw limp from the mist--Then, the head of his own
errant mule bobbed forward, and another roll of mist came up from the
lake. Wayland caught the trailing halter, headed the amazed little
animal back down the goat track with an urgent kick and sprang after it
to a clatter of rolling stones. When the clamor sank, he heard the pound
of hoofs as the outlaws galloped in the other direction. Five paces
farther, he found both the bronchos nosing c