he door behind.

That instant Ole, the Swede, thrust a curious head in at the outer
doorway. He had noticed the light and the gathering, and came to
ascertain their meaning. Wondering, his big eyes passed around
the waiting group and from them to the floor. With that look
self-consciousness left him; he crowded to the front, bending
over the tall man and speaking his name.

"Mr. Maurice," he called. "Mr. Maurice."

He snatched off his own coat, rolling it under Ichabod's head, and
with his handkerchief touched the dark spot on the forehead. It was
clotted already and hardening, and realization came to the boy Swede.
He stood up, facing the men, the big veins in his throat throbbing.

"Who did this?" he thundered, crouching for a spring like a great dog.
"Who did this, I say?"

It was the call to action. In the sudden horror of the tragedy the big
fellows had momentarily forgotten their own grim epilogue. Now, at the
words, they turned toward the door. But the Swede was in advance,
blocking the passage.

"Tell me first who did this thing," he challenged, threateningly.

A hand was laid gently upon his shoulder.

"Asa Arnold, my boy," answered a quiet voice, which continued, in
response to a sudden thought, "You live near here; have you seen him
to-night?"

The Swede dropped the bar.

"The little man who stays with Hans Becher?"

The questioner nodded.

"Yes, a half-hour ago." The boy-man understood now. "He stopped at my
house, and--"

"Which direction did he go?"

Ole stepped outside, his arm stretched over the prairie, white now in
the moonlight.

"That way," he indicated. "East."

As there had been quiescence before, now there was action. No charge
of cavalry was ever more swift than their sudden departure.

"East, toward Schooner's ranch," was called and repeated as they made
their way back to the road; and, following, the wiry little bronchos
groaned in unison as the back cinch to each one of the heavy saddles,
was, with one accord, drawn tight. Then, widening out upon the
reflected whiteness of prairie, there spread a great black crescent. A
moment later came silence, broken only by the quivering call of a lone
coyote.

Ole watched them out of sight, then turned back to the door; the mood
of the heroic passed, once more the timid, retiring Swede. But now he
was not alone. Bud Evans was quietly working over the body on the
floor, laying it out decently as the quick ever lay out the dead.