hadowy boughs of the balsam firs into the middle of the road, that the
bead might be drawn straight? Did he appreciate that the flash is sooner
sped than the missile and know his fate before the rifle-ball crashed
into his skull!--or was the instant all inadequate and did he enter
eternity ere he was well quit of this world?

Frightened by the sudden appearance of the man in the middle of the
thoroughfare, the funnel-shaped flare of light, the sharp report of the
weapon, the mare, trotting at full speed, swerved, plunged, backed, the
reins hanging loose about her heels, her driver having fallen forward
upon the dashboard. The dog-cart began to careen to one side as the
animal continued to back and rear, deterred from flight by the figure
standing still directly in the road. Suddenly she sought to turn in the
restricted narrow space, and instantly the wheels were over the verge of
the precipice.

All useless were the convulsive efforts of the creature to maintain her
footing on the rocky brink, the clutching hoofs, the elastic bounds. With
the weight of the vehicle, the dead man leaning heavily on the dashboard,
it was but a moment of suspense--then like a thunderbolt the whole went
crashing down into the valley, the depth to be conjectured by the
considerable interval of time before the sound of rending boughs and
surging foliage in the air gave token that the wreck was hurtling through
the trees on the levels a thousand feet below.

Two other men, armed with rifles, had sprung from among the firs and
stood aghast and listening on the verge of the crag. There was no longer
a sound. The tragedy was complete, irrevocable, before a word was
uttered.

"'T warn't _him_!" gasped the youngest--hardly more than a boy indeed.
His broad, beardless face was ghastly white, and his lips trembled as
violently as his shaking hand.

"Lawd! That was _Edward Briscoe_! What a pity, _sure_! It war a plumb
mistake, Copenny," plained an elder man, whose rifle had not been fired.
There was a regretful cadence in his voice akin to tears, and he held his
long, ragged red beard in one hand as he peered down into the
unresponsive depths.

"You oughter hev made sure afore ye teched the trigger, Copenny, that he
_war_ the revenuer!" cried the young fellow, Alvin Holvey, with a sudden
burst of petulance, despite the tragic realization expressed in his
quivering face. "Ye're sech a dead shot that ye could hev spared a minute
ter make sure of t