en," and the herders of opposition sheep and cattle outfits
were in bitter competition for free grass. Watson had many enemies, and
yet it was hard to think that any one of them would shoot him at night
through an open window, for such a deed was contrary to all the
established rules of the border.

Upon drawing rein at the porch the ranger first examined the footsteps
in the flour and under the window, and was forced to acknowledge that
all signs pointed to a woman assailant. The marks indicated small,
pointed, high-heeled shoes, and it was plain that the prowler had spent
some time peering in through the glass.

For fear that the wind might spring up and destroy the evidence, Hanscom
measured the prints carefully, putting down the precise size and shape
in his note-book. He studied the position of the dead man, who lay as he
had fallen from his chair, and made note of the fact that a half-emptied
bottle of liquor stood on the table. The condition of the room, though
disgusting, was not very different from its customary disorder.

Oppressed by the horror of the scene, the ranger withdrew a little way,
lit his pipe, and sat down to meditate on the crime.

"I can't believe a woman did it," he said. And yet he realized that
under certain conditions women can be more savage than men. "If Watson
had been shot on a woman's premises it wouldn't seem so much like
slaughter. But to kill a man at night in his own cabin is tolerably
fierce."

That the sad, lonely woman in the ranch above had anything to do with
this he would not for a moment entertain.

He turned away from the problem at last and dozed in the sunshine,
calculating with detailed knowledge of the trail and its difficulties
just how long it would take Kitsong to reach the coroner and start back
up the hill.

It was nearly four o'clock when he heard the feet of horses on the
bridge below the ranch, and a few minutes later Kitsong came into view,
heading a motley procession of horsemen and vehicles. It was evident
that he had notified all his neighbors along the road, for they came
riding in as if to a feast, their eyes alight with joyous interest.

The coroner, a young doctor named Carmody, took charge of the case with
brisk, important pomp, seconded by Sheriff Throop, a heavy man with
wrinkled, care-worn brow, who seemed burdened with a sense of personal
responsibility for Watson's death. He was all for riding up and
instantly apprehending the Kauffmans, bu