y to the Gap from Lee. Before
sunset he died with those boots on, while the sweetheart, unknowing,
was bound on her happy way homeward, and Rufe Tolliver, who had shot
Mockaby, was clattering through the Gap in flight for Lonesome Cove.

As far as anybody knew, there had been but one Tolliver and one Falin in
town that day, though many had noticed the tall Western-looking stranger
who, early in the afternoon, had ridden across the bridge over the North
Fork, but he was quiet and well-behaved, he merged into the crowd and
through the rest of the afternoon was in no way conspicuous, even when
the one Tolliver and the one Falin got into a fight in front of the
speaker's stand and the riot started which came near ending in a bloody
battle. The Falin was clearly blameless and was let go at once. This
angered the many friends of the Tolliver, and when he was arrested there
was an attempt at rescue, and the Tolliver was dragged to the calaboose
behind a slowly retiring line of policemen, who were jabbing the
rescuers back with the muzzles of cocked Winchesters. It was just when
it was all over, and the Tolliver was safely jailed, that Bad Rufe
galloped up to the calaboose, shaking with rage, for he had just learned
that the prisoner was a Tolliver. He saw how useless interference was,
but he swung from his horse, threw the reins over its head after the
Western fashion and strode up to Hale.

"You the captain of this guard?"

"Yes," said Hale; "and you?" Rufe shook his head with angry impatience,
and Hale, thinking he had some communication to make, ignored his
refusal to answer.

"I hear that a fellow can't blow a whistle or holler, or shoot off his
pistol in this town without gittin' arrested."

"That's true--why?" Rufe's black eyes gleamed vindictively.

"Nothin'," he said, and he turned to his horse.

Ten minutes later, as Mockaby was passing down the dummy track, a
whistle was blown on the river bank, a high yell was raised, a pistol
shot quickly followed and he started for the sound of them on a run. A
few minutes later three more pistol shots rang out, and Hale rushed to
the river bank to find Mockaby stretched out on the ground, dying, and a
mountaineer lout pointing after a man on horseback, who was making at a
swift gallop for the mouth of the gap and the hills.

"He done it," said the lout in a frightened way; "but I don't know who
he was."

Within half an hour ten horsemen were clattering after the murdere