me to his thirtieth year with very little love
history to his credit or discredit. He was, therefore, peculiarly
susceptible to that sweet disease of the imagination which is able to
transform the rudest woman into beauty. In this case the very slightness
of the material on which his mind dwelt set the wings of his fancy free.
He brooded and dreamed as he rode his trail as well as when he sat
beside his rude fireplace at night, listening to the wind in the high
firs. In all his thought he was honorable.

II

One day in early autumn, as he was returning to his station, Hanscom met
Abe Kitsong just below Watson's cabin, riding furiously down the hill.
Drawing his horse to a stand, the rancher called out:

"Just the man I need!"

"What's the trouble?"

"Ed Watson's killed!"

Hanscom stared incredulously. "No! Where--when?"

"Last night, I reckon. You see, Ed had promised to ride down to my
place this morning and help me to raise a shed, and when he didn't come
I got oneasy and went up to see what kept him, and the first thing I saw
when I opened the door was him layin' on the floor, shot through and
through." Here his voice grew savage. "And by that Kauffman woman!"

"Hold on, Abe!" called the ranger, sharply. "Go slow on that talk. What
makes you think that woman--any woman--did it?"

"Well, it jest happened that Ed had spilled some flour along the porch,
and in prowling around the window that woman jest naturally walked over
it. You can see the print of her shoes where she stopped under the
window. You've got to go right up there--you're a gover'ment
officer--and stand guard over the body while I ride down the valley and
get the coroner and the sheriff."

"All right. Consider it done," said Hanscom, and Kitsong continued his
frenzied pace down the valley.

The ranger, his blood quickening in spite of himself, spurred his horse
into a gallop and was soon in sight of the Shellfish Ranch, where Watson
had lived for several years in unkempt, unsavory bachelorhood, for the
reason that his wife had long since quit him, and only the roughest
cowboys would tolerate the disorder of his bed and board. Privately,
Hanscom was not much surprised at the rustler's death (although the
manner of it seemed unnecessarily savage), for he was quarrelsome and
vindictive.

The valley had not yet emerged from the violent era, and every man in
the hills went armed. The canyons round about were still safe harbors for
"lonesome m