their bones creep.

"But wouldn't poisoning be the surer and quicker way? Slip a few drops
of prussic acid into his food, and death would be instantaneous."

Marshal Crow clutched Bill Kepsal's arm. "Did you hear that?" he
whispered. She had spoken in hushed, quavering tones.

Then came a man's voice from the porch above, low and suppressed.

"Why not wait till he is asleep and let me sneak up to him and put the
revolver to his head--"

"But--but suppose he should awake and--"

"He'll never open his eyes again, believe me. Poison isn't always sure
to work quickly or thoroughly. We don't want a struggle."

"You may be right. I--I leave it to you."

"Good! The sooner the better, then. If we do it at once, Francois and
Henry can bury him before morning. I think--"

"I cannot bear to talk about it. Creep in and see if he is asleep. Don't
make the slightest noise. He--he must never know!"

Stealthy footsteps, as of one tiptoeing, were heard by the listeners
below the porch. Then, a moment later, the sound of a woman sobbing.

The foregoing conversation was distinctly heard by at least half of
Marshal Crow's posse. Three of the watchers, crouching not far from
Anderson Crow and his two supporters, abruptly left their hiding-places
and started swiftly toward the front gate. The Marshal intercepted them.

"Where are you going?" he whispered, grabbing the foremost, who happened
to be Elmer K. Pratt, the photographer.

"I was sure I saw that feller you were telling about skipping down
toward the street," whispered Mr. Pratt, his voice shaking. "I'm going
after him. I--"

"Keep still! Stay where you are. Alf, you round up the boys--collect 'em
up here, quiet as possible. We got to prevent this terrible murder. You
heard what they were plottin' to do. Surround the house. Close every
avenue of escape. Three or four of us will bust in through the porch
an'--You stay with me, Sim, an' you too, Bill. Get your pistol ready,
Sim. When I give the word--foller me! Where's Alf? Is he surrounding the
house? Sh! Don't speak!"

* * * * *

Shadowy figures began scuttling about the lawn, darting from bush to
bush, advancing upon the house.

"Now--get ready, Sim," whispered Anderson.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when a dull, smothered report,
as of one striking the side of a barrel, reached the ears of the
assembling forces. Then a sharp, agonized cry from the lady in the
veranda.