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“Do I know Lance Harriott?” said the voice. “Do I know the d—-d ruffian? Didn’t I hunt him a year ago into the brush three miles from the Crossing? Didn’t we lose sight of him the very day he turned up yer at this ranch, and got smuggled over into Monterey? Ain’t it the same man as killed Arkansaw Bob–Bob Ridley–the name he went by in Sonora? And who was Bob Ridley, eh? Who? Why, you d—-d old fool, it was Bob Fairley–YOUR SON!”

The old man’s voice rose querulous and indistinct.

“What are ye talkin’ about?” interrupted the first speaker. “I tell you I KNOW. Look at these pictures. I found ’em on his body. Look at ’em. Pictures of you and your girl. Pr’aps you’ll deny them. Pr’aps you’ll tell me I lie when I tell you HE told me he was your son; told me how he ran away from you; how you were livin’ somewhere in the mountains makin’ gold, or suthin’ else, outer charcoal. He told me who he was as a secret. He never let on he told it to any one else. And when I found that the man who killed him, Lance Harriott, had been hidin’ here, had been sendin’ spies all around to find out all about your son, had been foolin’ you and tryin’ to ruin your gal as he had killed your boy, I knew that HE knew it, too.”

“LIAR!”

The door fell in with a crash. There was the sudden apparition of a demoniac face, still half hidden by the long trailing black locks of hair that curled like Medusa’s around it. A cry of terror filled the room. Three of the men dashed from the door and fled precipitately. The man who had spoken sprang toward his rifle in the chimney corner. But the movement was his last; a blinding flash and shattering report interposed between him and his weapon.

The impulse carried him forward headlong into the fire, that hissed and spluttered with his blood, and Lance Harriott with his smoking pistol, strode past him to the door. Already far down the trail there were hurried voices, the crack and crackling of impending branches growing fainter and fainter in the distance. Lance turned back to the solitary living figure–the old man.

Yet he might have been dead, too, he sat so rigid and motionless, his fixed eyes staring vacantly at the body on the hearth. Before him on the table lay the cheap photographs, one evidently of himself, taken in some remote epoch of complexion, one of a child which Lance recognized as Flip.

“Tell me,” said Lance hoarsely, laying his quivering hand on the table, “was Bob Ridley your son?”

“My son,” echoed the old man in a strange, far-off voice, without turning his eyes from the corpse–“My son–is–is–is there!” pointing to the dead man. “Hush! Didn’t he tell you so? Didn’t you hear him say it? Dead–dead–shot–shot!”

“Silence! are you crazy, man?” repeated Lance, tremblingly; “that is not Bob Ridley, but a dog, a coward, a liar gone to his reckoning. Hear me! If your son WAS Bob Ridley, I swear to God I never knew it, now or–or–THEN. Do you hear me? Tell me! Do you believe me? Speak! You shall speak.”

He laid his hand almost menacingly on the old man’s shoulder. Fairley slowly raised his head. Lance fell back with a groan of horror. The weak lips were wreathed with a feeble imploring smile, but the eyes wherein the fretful, peevish, suspicious spirit had dwelt were blank and tenantless; the flickering intellect that had lit them was blown out and vanished.

Lance walked toward the door and remained motionless for a moment, gazing into the night. When he turned back again toward the fire his face was as colorless as the dead man’s on the hearth; the fire of passion was gone from his beaten eyes; his step was hesitating and slow. He went up to the table.