The old man knew it must be almost six o’clock; for the light came aslant the gap and the chill of the upper snow crept down from the mountain.  A pretty business this, it seemed to him:  twenty miles back of beyond; horses sent on at random ahead; a gang of murderers in hiding above—­Matthews walked boldly along the precipice trail, saw the eagle below circling, still circling; heard a hawk skirr and scold from a dead branch—­Then, he deliberately pointed his voice to the rock wall of the echo across the gorge and let out a yell that split the welkin—­A thousand—­ten thousand—­multitudinous eldritch laughing echoes came jibbering and mumbling and giggling and shrilling back from the rock, filling the Pass with chattering, knocking sounds that skipped from stone to stone.

Instantly, a shot, a shout, a bang, the rocking crash of echoes—­mixed with ear-splitting, rocketting shots—­a crunch of feet—­the old man dashed to the hiding of his crag.  A spurt of gravel mid showers of dust and snorting of horses—­Not on the trail at all but almost over his back, slithered and slid and bunched horses and men, pell mell, the white horse leading the way braced back on its haunches, the fellow in the yellow slicker rumbling a volcano of lurid curses—­The outlaws had not followed the goat track at all but jumped sheer from the higher slope to the Pass trail.

Shouting “Stop!—­Stop!—­I command you in the name of the State to stop—!” the old man sprang to the middle of the trail flourishing the rifle above his head.

“State be damned,” yelled the fellow in the oil-skin slicker.  Never pausing, turning only to shoot at wild random, the outlaws had tumbled—­stumbled—­slid down the slatey slope for the lake.

There was the pound—­pound—­the huffing of saddle leather—­and a horse came spurring along the Pass trail at reckless gallop.  The old man flung himself athwart—­a rider in sheep-skin leggings, hat far back, came round the rock at break neck pace looking over his shoulder as if pursued—­One jump—­the old frontiersman had the horse’s bridle!  The shock threw the beast’s hind legs clear over the edge jarring the rider almost to the animal’s neck.  Next—­the old man was looking down the barrel of the outlaw’s big repeater—­With a mighty swing, Matthews clubbed his rifle on the other’s wrist.  He might have scruples as to law and conscience; but he knew how and when and where to hit, did the Briton with the Scotch-Canadian blood.  Also he knew when to let go—­There was a flash—­the rock splintering crash of echo, the whinnying scream and leap of the horse shot by the falling weapon—­Rider and beast hurtled backwards, the man’s foot caught to one stirrup—­There was the crackling of slate and shale—­the gash and rasp and wrench of loosening rock masses sliding—­down—­down—­down and yet down, with knocking echoes; with laughter of terrified scream from the echo rock across the gorge—­pound and plunge from ledge to ledge—­the