his rifle, with eyes of a falcon, but added to
a dreadful, dark certainty of disaster. A rifle shot swiftly followed
by revolver shots! What could, they mean? Revolver shots of different
caliber, surely fired by different men! What could they mean? It was
not these shots that accounted for Jean's dread, but the yell which had
followed. All his intelligence and all his nerve were not sufficient
to fight down the feeling of calamity. And at last, yielding to it, he
left his post, and ran like a deer across the open, through the cabin
yard, and around the edge of the slope to the road. Here his caution
brought him to a halt. Not a living thing crossed his vision. Breaking
into a run, he soon reached the back of Meeker's place and entered, to
hurry forward to the cabin.

Colmor was there in the yard, breathing hard, his face working, and in
front of him crouched several of the men with rifles ready. The road,
to Jean's flashing glance, was apparently deserted. Blue sat on the
doorstep, lighting a cigarette. Then on the moment Blaisdell strode to
the door of the cabin. Jean had never seen him look like that.

"Jean--look--down the road," he said, brokenly, and with big hand
shaking he pointed down toward Greaves's store.

Like lightning Jean's glance shot down--down--down--until it stopped to
fix upon the prostrate form of a man, lying in the middle of the road.
A man of lengthy build, shirt-sleeved arms flung wide, white head in
the dust--dead! Jean's recognition was as swift as his sight. His
father! They had killed him! The Jorths! It was done. His father's
premonition of death had not been false. And then, after these
flashing thoughts, came a sense of blankness, momentarily almost
oblivion, that gave place to a rending of the heart. That pain Jean
had known only at the death of his mother. It passed, this agonizing
pang, and its icy pressure yielded to a rushing gust of blood, fiery as
hell.

"Who--did it?" whispered Jean.

"Jorth!" replied Blaisdell, huskily. "Son, we couldn't hold your dad
back.... We couldn't. He was like a lion.... An' he throwed his life
away! Oh, if it hadn't been for that it 'd not be so awful. Shore, we
come heah to shoot an' be shot. But not like that.... By God, it was
murder--murder!"

Jean's mute lips framed a query easily read.

"Tell him, Blue. I cain't," continued Blaisdell, and he tramped back
into the cabin.

"Set down, Jean, an' take things easy," sa