the Blue Ridge. That he had been neutral was merely an accident of
birth, perhaps. And that he had not become involved in the quarrel that
raged among his neighbors was the direct result of a genius for holding
his tongue. He had attended the funerals of men shot down in their own
dooryards, he had witnessed the trials of the killers. He had grown up
with the settled conviction that other men's quarrels did not concern
him so long as he was not directly involved, and that what did not
concern him he had no right to discuss. If he stood aside and let
violence stalk by unhindered, he was merely doing what he had been
taught to do from the time he could walk. "Mind your own business and
let other folks do the same," had been the family slogan in Lone's home.
There had been nothing in Lone's later life to convince him that minding
his own business was not a very good habit. It had grown to be second
nature,--and it had made him a good man for the Sawtooth Cattle Company
to have on its pay roll.

Just now Lone was stirred beyond his usual depth of emotion, and it was
not altogether the sight of Fred Thurman's battered body that unnerved
him. He wanted to believe that Thurman's death was purely an
accident,--the accident it appeared. But Lorraine and the telltale
hoofprints by the rock compelled him to believe that it was not an
accident. He knew that if he examined carefully enough Fred Thurman's
body he would find the mark of a bullet. He was tempted to look, and yet
he did not want to know. It was no business of his; it would be foolish
to let it become his business.

"He's too dead to care now how it happened--and it would only stir up
trouble," he finally decided and turned his eyes away.

He pulled the twisted foot from the stirrup, left the body where it lay,
and led the blaze-faced horse to a tree and tied it securely. He took
off his coat and spread it over the head and shoulders of the dead man,
weighted the edges with rocks and rode away.

Halfway up the hill he left the road and took a narrow trail through the
sage, a short-cut that would save him a couple of miles.

The trail crossed the ridge half a mile beyond Rock City, dipping into
the lower end of the small gulch where he had overtaken the girl. The
place recalled with fresh vividness, her first words to him: "Are _you_
the man I saw shoot that other man and fasten his foot in the stirrup?"
Lone shivered and threw away the cigarette he had just lighted.