the grove. For another moment nothing changed in the appearance of the
riders, then a man leaned out of his saddle and fell full length in the
water.

Around him his companions floundered, lifted and placed him on the bank,
and then threw themselves from their horses to take shelter behind the
first rocks they could find; they had no wish to take chances with a man
who could snap-shoot like this in such a light, at such a distance. By
the time they were in position their quarry had slipped out of sight and
they had only the blackening boulders for targets.

"God amighty," cried Ronicky Joe, "are you goin' to let that murderin'
hound-dog get clear off, Pete? Boys, who's with me for a run at him?"

For it was Harry Fisher who had fallen and lay now on the wet bank with
his arms flung wide and a red spot rimmed with purple in the center of
his forehead; and Fisher was Ronicky Joe's partner.

"You lay where you are," commanded the sheriff, and indeed there had
been no rousing response to Ronicky Joe's appeal.

"You yaller quitters," groaned Joe. "Give me a square chance and I'll
tackle Vic Gregg alone day or night, on hoss or on foot. Are we five
goin' to lay down to him?"

"If that was Vic Gregg," answered the sheriff, slipping over the insult
with perfect calm, "I wouldn't of told you to scatter for cover; but
that ain't Vic."

"Pete, what in hell are you drivin' at?"

"I say it ain't Vic," said the sheriff. "Vic is a good man with a hoss
and a good man with a gun, but he couldn't never ride like the gent over
there in the rocks, and he couldn't shoot like him."

He pointed, in confirmation, at the body of Harry Fisher.

"You can rush that hill if you want, but speakin' personal, I ain't
ready to die."

A thoughtful silence held the others until Sliver Waldron broke it with
his deep bass. "You ain't far off, Pete. I done some thinkin' along them
lines when I seen him standin' up there over the arroyo wavin' his hat
at the bullets. Vic didn't never have the guts for that."

All the lower valley was gray, dark in comparison with the bright peaks
above it, before the sheriff rose from his place and led the posse
towards the body of Grey Molly. There they found as much confirmation of
Pete's theory as they needed, for Vic's silver-mounted saddle was known
to all of them, and this was a plain affair which they found on the dead
horse. Waldron pushed back his hat to scratch his head.

"Look at them eyes, boys," h