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The sheriff was on his feet, whining with eagerness and with the rest of his men he sent a shower of lead splashing vainly into the deeper night beside the mountain, where the path wound down.

“It's done! Hold up, lads!” called Pete Glass. “He's beat us!”

The firing ceased, and they heard the rush of the hoofs along the graveled slope and the clanging on rocks.

“It's done,” repeated the sheriff. “How?”

And he stood staring blankly, with a touch or horror in his face.

“By God, Mat's plugged.”

“Mat Henshaw? Who”

“Clean through the head.”

He lay in an oddly twisted heap, as though every bone in his body were broken, and when they drew him about they found the red mark in his forehead and even made out the dull surprise in his set face. There had been no pain in that death, the second for the sake of Grey Molly. 129