murder when A fired!  A’m hopin’—­God forgive me—­A’ve nipped him in the other arm an’ brought him winged t’ th’ throne o’ Grace!  They followed the gully bed behind y’r Mountain, the white horse same as yon night under y’r Ridge, limpin’, the one armed man rockin’ in the saddle an’ spittin’ out blasphemous filth for th’ others to wait.  A’ve kept guard all night, yellin’ an’ howlin’ like a vigilantee, knowin’ they’re not the gentry to run into the arms of them good old-time neck-tie com’tees; an’ not dreamin’ A hadn’t another cartridge to my name!” The old man swabbed the sweat from his brow.

“A left m’ coat and togs back at yon chuck wagon!” Wayland noticed he was riding stocking soled.

“I have an extra hat for you here.”  Wayland tossed the soft felt from the pocket of his leather coat.

“Oh, A saw ’em plain enough; same ill-lookin’ six that y’r hell-kite laws hatch on a bad frontier!  Make no mistake.  Yon white vest is at the bottom o’ this deviltry!  Who is he, Wayland?”

Wayland related the visit of a white-vest to his Ridge cabin; and they trotted forward towards a sheep wagon.

“How did y’ come up here?” asked the old frontiersman.

“Where did you get that horse?” retorted the Ranger.

“One of the chuck wagons’ teams—­”

“Herders all right?” asked Wayland.  He knew what the answer must be; the same answer that had been disgracing the West these twenty years.

The old man jerked his horse to a dead stop, drew himself erect and looked straight at the Ranger.

“Wayland, man, is this Russia—­or Hell?  Is there another country in the world calls itself civilized would allow four herder men to be burned to death?  Does the country know what is doing?  Do you know what happened?  Do you know that last wagon is left there only because the rains put out the fire?  Y’ll find the iron tires of the other wagons with skeletons of men chained to the wheels.  A came up just as they were settin’ aboot firin’ the second wagon.  They’d ripped all the flour bags open and loosed the horses.  This one, A caught full pelther down the trail.”

The old man shook his head.

They trotted their horses across the Mesas in silence towards the glaring white canvas wagon.  Broken harness, half-burned spokes, the charred hub of a wheel, snapped whiffle-trees, the white dust of scattered flour littered the ground.  A brown scorch of flame up the back of the tent above the remaining wagon marked where the rains had extinguished the fire.  A smouldering ill-smelling ash heap told the fate of the other wagons.

“Hell-devilish work, hell-devilish work!  Th’ beasts of the field couldna’ conceive such baseness, Wayland!  ‘Tis the work o’ devils spawned by harpies!  They say there is no devil to-day!  Hoh!” The old man puffed the heresy from his pursed lips.  “The beasts don’t prey on their own ’cepting the rats that starve; but, man, there’s no explanation of his self-destruction ’cepting the old fashioned one, Wayland.  ‘He was possessed by a devil.’”