n the ground, dead, with a bullet hole in his ghastly
face. Near him lay an old six-shooter.

"Whose gun is that?" demanded Jean, as he picked it up.

"Ber-nardino's," replied Evarts, huskily. "He--he jest got it--the
other day."

"Did he shoot himself accidentally?"

"Oh no! No! He didn't do it--atall."

"Who did, then?"

"The men--they rode up--a gang-they did it," panted Evarts.

"Did you know who they were?"

"No. I couldn't tell. I saw them comin' an' I was skeered. Bernardino
had gone fer water. I run an' hid in the brush. I wanted to yell, but
they come too close.... Then I heerd them talkin'. Bernardino come
back. They 'peared friendly-like. Thet made me raise up, to look. An'
I couldn't see good. I heerd one of them ask Bernardino to let him see
his gun. An' Bernardino handed it over. He looked at the gun an'
haw-hawed, an' flipped it up in the air, an' when it fell back in his
hand it--it went off bang! ... An' Bernardino dropped.... I hid down
close. I was skeered stiff. I heerd them talk more, but not what they
said. Then they rode away.... An' I hid there till I seen y'u comin'."

"Have you got a horse?" queried Jean, sharply.

"No. But I can ride one of Bernardino's burros."

"Get one. Hurry over to Blaisdell. Tell him to send word to Blue and
Gordon and Fredericks to ride like the devil to my father's ranch.
Hurry now!"

Young Evarts ran off without reply. Jean stood looking down at the
limp and pathetic figure of the Mexican boy. "By Heaven!" he
exclaimed, grimly "the Jorth-Isbel war is on! ... Deliberate,
cold-blooded murder! I'll gamble Daggs did this job. He's been given
the leadership. He's started it.... Bernardino, greaser or not, you
were a faithful lad, and you won't go long unavenged."

Jean had no time to spare. Tearing a tarpaulin out of the teepee he
covered the lad with it and then ran for, his horse. Mounting, he
galloped down the draw, over the little red ridges, out into the
valley, where he put his horse to a run.

Action changed the sickening horror that sight of Bernardino had
engendered. Jean even felt a strange, grim relief. The long, dragging
days of waiting were over. Jorth's gang had taken the initiative.
Blood had begun to flow. And it would continue to flow now till the
last man of one faction stood over the dead body of the last man of the
other. Would it be a Jorth or an Isbel? "My instinct was right," he
muttered, aloud. "That b