the brake to the rocks--the clatter of its hoofs sounded on
the rocks, and the last glimpse of it showed its empty saddle and the
two flying stirrup-irons.

Dale was mad now--the devil loose in him--only conscious of
unappeasable rage and hatred, as he struck with his fists, beating the
man down every time he tried to get up, and kicking at the man's head
when he lay prostrate.

Then there came a brief pause of extraordinary deep quiet, a sudden
cessation of all perceptible sounds and movements. Dale was confused,
dazed, breathing hard. That was a dead man sprawling there--what you
call a corpse, a bleeding carcass. Dale looked at him. Beneath his
last kick, the skull had cracked like a well-tapped egg.

As abruptly as if his legs had been knocked from under him Dale sat
down, and endeavored to think.

Then it was as if all his thought and the action resulting from his
thought were beyond his control. In all that he did he seemed to be
governed by instinct.

At any minute some one might pass by. He must drag the body out of
sight. And the instinctive thoughts came rapidly, each one as the
necessity for it arose. He must leave no foot-prints, or as few as
possible. He unlaced and pulled off his boots, and, noticing the blood
on them, made a mental note to wash them as soon as he could find time
to do so.

He took the dead man by the heels, and dragged him cautiously toward
the rocks--seeking the zigzag line taken by the galloping horse. That
was the chance. Instinct directed and explained the task--to make it
seem that the horse had dragged him, and battered his life out over
the rocks. A good chance. Those stirrups didn't come out. He might
truly have been dragged by one of them.

The track of the horse was lost directly the rocks began. Dale left
the body, and cautiously clambered upon the rocks to see if any living
thing observed him.

Then he took the corpse by the heels again, and hauled it over the
jagged surfaces and through the hollows--conscious all the while of
great pain--and finally left it in a cleft, staring stupidly upward.
He hurried back to the ride, and sat down by the rank-smelling bracken
where he had left his boots. He was startled when he looked at his
feet--their soles were covered with blood. He thought it was the dead
man's blood, but then discovered it was his own. He had torn his feet
to pieces on the rocks. He put on his boots in agony, picked up his
hat, and limped away through the