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"Steve, I've seen men killed before, but I never saw anything so

awful as that. It was just like they had been struck by lightning

for suddenness. There was that devil scattering death among them

and the poor fellows crumpling up like rabbits. I tell you every

time I think of it the thing makes me sick."

The ranger nodded. He understood. The picture rose before him of

a man in a Berserk rage, stark mad for the moment, playing

Destiny on that lonely, moonlit hill. The face his instinct

fitted to the irresponsible murderer was that of Jed Briscoe.

Somehow he was sure of that, beyond the shadow of a doubt. His

imagination conceived that long ride back across the hills, the

deep agonies of silence, the fierce moments of vindictive

accusation. No doubt for long the tug of conscience was with them

in all their waking hours, for these men were mostly

simple-minded cattlemen caught in the web of evil chance.