horse’s body turning twice as it struck and bounced out—­a cloud of dust—­the shout, the blasphemy, the cry of rage, then the shrill scream of death terror that echoed and echoed—­The old man looked down!  There was a pounding of the stones—­a faint far rebound and the darkness below swallowed over a fading swirl at the bottom of the canyon.  He heard, he thought, he heard the engulfing gurgle of the waters, while the shrill scream still jibbered and faded along the echo ledge.

“By violence ye lived—­by violence ye die—­over the precipice ye go as ye sent the mangled boy to the bloody death!”

Then the Ranger was tumbling down the goat track in a slither of shale.

“Come on—­that was well done, sir!  Wish we’d sent them all over to the very bottom of Hell—!  I’d stalked that fellow apart from the others when you signaled—­come on—­we’ll catch the rest at the lake—­there’s a fellow wounded—­you must have nipped one when you shot this morning—­join me at the lake,” and leaving Matthews to follow by the foot trail, the delirious Ranger went tearing exultant down the stone slide.  Water-muffled shots sounded from the lake.  Wayland paused in his head-long descent.  The five outlaws were shoving the punt from the shore with the bronchos swimming in tow.  The stolen wagon horses, lay shot on the shore.  One of the outlaws was being supported by the others.  It was the man in the yellow slicker.

A great wave went over Wayland of something he had never before known.  It pounded at his temples.  It set his heart going in a force pump.  It blew his lungs out, and set the whip cord muscles itching to go—­to go—­he wanted to shout with joy of power—­power that pursued and caught and crushed—­and trembled with overplus of intoxicated strength—­He knew if he could lay his hand on Crime at that moment he could crush the life out of the thing’s throat; and there was a parchedness that was not thirst, a tingling to clinch that Criminal Thing menacing the Nation, to clinch and strangle it to a death not honored in the code of white-corpuscled anaemic study-chair reformers.

“Well,” he said, as the other came limping down to the shore, “I didn’t think there could be enough of the savage in me to enjoy a manhunt.”

The old Briton looked queerly at the young fellow.

“A’m beginnin’—­,” he said slowly, “A’m beginnin’ to understand y’r lynch law in this country—­an’ the why.”

“What do you make of it?” asked Wayland, too excited to notice the other’s abstraction.

“A’m beginnin’ to understand if y’ monkey with the law much longer in this land, the whole Nation will go locoed like you, Wayland—­with a blood thirst for righteousness—­a white passion for the square deal—­an’ God pity—­that day!”

The fugitives had reached the far shore of the lake, landed and were riding off when a second thought seemed to bring one man back to the water’s edge.  He stooped, heaved up a rock, threw it through the bottom of the old punt.