n 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.

"My God, that girl mustn't tell that to any one else!" he exclaimed
apprehensively. "No matter who she is or what she is, she mustn't tell
that!"

"Hello! Who you talking to? I heard somebody talking----" The bushes
parted above a low, rocky ledge and a face peered out, smiling
good-humouredly. Lone started a little and pulled up.

"Oh, hello, Swan. I was just telling this horse of mine all I was
going to do to him. Say, you're a chancey bird, Swan, yelling from the
brush like that. Some folks woulda taken a shot at you."

"Then they'd hit me, sure," Swan observed, letting himself down into
the trail. He, too, was wet from his hat crown to his shoes, that
squelched when he landed lightly on his toes. "Anybody woul