e baleful gleam of some rapacious
feline.

"You did a good job, Ess; he's dead as a mackerel."

The answer was the faint, broken moan which came and went with her
breath.

"I'll go to town for help----"

The girl opened her eyes and looked at her beseechingly.

"Don't leave me alone!"

Dr. Harpe ignored the whispered prayer.

"Don't touch anything--leave everything just as it is," she said curtly;
"it'll be better for _you_."

Before she untied her team at the shearing-pens she walked around the
house and looked once more at the repulsive object lying upon a dingy
quilt. Death had refused Dubois even the usual gift of dignity. His
mouth was open, and his eyes; he looked even more than in life the brute
and the miser.

"Two shots; and each made a bull's eye. One in the temple and another
for luck. Either would have killed him."

She covered his face with a corner of the "soogan" and glanced around.
The short, highly polished barrel of a Colt's automatic protruded from a
clump of dwarf cactus some few feet away. She swooped swiftly down upon
it and broke it open. The first cartridge had jammed and every other
chamber was filled. Dr. Harpe held it in the palm of her hand, regarding
it reflectively. Then she took her thumb nail and extracted the jammed
cartridge and shook a second from the chamber. These she kept. The gun
she threw from her with all her strength.

She lost no time in urging her fagged horses up the steep hill opposite
the ranch house on the road back to Crowheart. At the top she let them
pant a moment before they started up another almost as steep.

Dr. Harpe removed her hat and lifted her moist hair with her fingers.
The sun was lowering, the annoying gnats and flies were beginning to
subside, it soon would be cool and pleasant. Dr. Harpe looked back at
the peaceful scene in the flat below--the sheep-wagon with its canvas
top, the square, log cabin, the still heap beside it--really there was
no reason why she should not enjoy exceedingly the drive back to town.

Out of the hills behind her came a golden voice that had the carrying
qualities of a flute.

"Farewell, my own dear Napoli, farewell to thee, farewell to thee."

The smile faded from her face.

"The devil!" She chirped to her horses. "Where'd _he_ come from?"

Those of Crowheart's citizens who yawned at 8 and retired at 8.30 were
aroused from their peaceful slumbers by the astounding news that Essie
Tisdale had shot and killed