te loyally rejected it in the face of reason. Reason told him
that there went the slayer. For this dead man was what was left of
Johnny Croft, the Crofty of whom Jim had gossiped not more than half an
hour before. And the gossip had been of threats which Johnny Croft had
made against the two Douglas brothers,--big Aleck, of the Lazy A, and
Carl, of the Bar Nothing ranch adjoining.

Suicide it could scarcely be, for Crofty was the type of man who would
cling to life; besides, his gun was in its holster, and a man would
hardly have the strength or the desire to put away his gun after he has
shot himself under one eye. Death had undoubtedly been immediate.
Lite thought of these things while he stood there just inside the door.
Then he turned slowly and went outside, and stood hesitating upon the
porch. He did not quite know what he ought to do about it, and so he
did not mean to be in too great a hurry to do anything; that was Lite's
habit, and he had always found that it served him well.

If the rider had been fleeing from his crime, as was likely, Lite had
no mind to raise at once the hue and cry. An hour or two could make no
difference to the dead man,--and you must remember that Lite had for
six years called this place his home, and big Aleck Douglas his friend
as well as the man who paid him wages for the work he did. He was half
tempted to ride away and say nothing for a while. He could let it
appear that he had not been at the house at all and so had not
discovered the crime when he did. That would give Aleck Douglas more
time to get away. But there was Jean, due at any moment now. He could
not go away and let Jean discover that gruesome thing on the kitchen
floor. He could not take it up and hide it away somewhere; he could
not do anything, it seemed to him, but just wait.

He went slowly down the path to the stable, his chin on his chest, his
mind grappling with the tragedy and with the problem of how best he
might lighten the blow that had fallen upon the ranch. It was
unreal,--it was unthinkable,--that Aleck Douglas, the man who met but
friendly glances, ride where he might, had done this thing. And yet
there was nothing else to believe. Johnny Croft had worked here on the
ranch for a couple of months, off and on. He had not been steadily
employed, and he had been paid by the day instead of by the month as
was the custom. He had worked also for Carl Douglas at the Bar
Nothing; back and forth, fo