ontemptuously, "what good would all the
laws be to Ken arter Matlock had him pumped full o' lead? Thar's only
one law fer rattlesnakes on ther range, honey--kill 'em befoah they gits
a chanct ter strike!" The leathery old face twitched venomously and she
slashed the pie top with suggestive vigor.

"But that would be murder!" gasped the girl, her face gray with horror.

"Murder, huh! An' what would it be if Matlock has his way? Didn't he
kill thet sheepherd--who whopped him fair an' squar'--in cold blood?
Didn't he jest nat'rally butcher thet pore Dutch boy arter fust
cripplin' o' his gun on ther sly, ther tre'cherous haound! Murder--!"

Her gray crest was erect and she was breathing audibly through
passion-pinched nostrils. She put her hand kindly on the girl's
shoulder. "Hit's got ter be one or t'other on 'em, honey. They hain't no
other way. An' out yeah whar wimmin 'n children air left alone a heap at
times hit's every good man's duty ter pertect his own. Did yuh heah what
happened ter thet sheepman's wife thet night arter they killed her man?

"Hit war one man done hit arter the rest was gone. He was masked, o'
cose, but all thu rest o' yuh outfit was at thu Alcazar--Matlock with
'em--so's ter prove a alleyby. Thu one that were shy was thu feller they
found on Hoss Creek a week later with nine buckshot in his rotten
heart." And then she avoided the girl's eyes as she whispered something
that brought Grace to her feet screaming with horror.

"Naow I ain't sayin'," she went on slowly, "thet Matlock is as low as
thet. T'other was a half-breed 'n some say a convick. But thar's no room
fer him on this range naow, an' he knows it. An' that kind o' man allus
goes bad. He's got it in specul fer Ken, an' hit's suah one er t'other
on 'em." And then she shot her last bolt mercilessly:

"Would yuh ruther he killed Ken?"

Outside somewhere a raven, scavengering indolently about the corrals,
croaked gutturally; never again as long as she lived would Grace Carter
hear without shuddering the uncanny dissonance of that foul bird. In the
silence of that suddenly oppressive room the ticking of the little cheap
alarm clock on the mantel beat upon her brain like the strokes of a
drum, seeming to her disordered mind to say "Kill-Ken!--Kill-Ken!"

She passed her hand numbly over her forehead, mechanically adjusting a
stray wisp of hair. She was dimly conscious of an agony of compunction
on the wrinkled face before her, but it excit