“The world grew dark with mystery and all around was still, when
the shadow of a cross arose upon a lonely hill.”
Pat lifted her head. A man was riding in from down by the gate. He drew
rein and listened to the song until it was finished and rode up to the
porch. It was Frawley. He dismounted and came up to the porch, calling a
soft greeting to Pat and Wild.
Flint Moore and his wife heard him and came outside.
“I just stopped for a minute,” said Frawley. “The rest of the posse went
straight back to Oxbow.”
“Did you catch the Indian?” asked Flint.
Frawley shook his head.
“No. We trailed them to the foot of the Devil’s Pulpit, where we found
the horse; and a little later we found them both, lying at the foot of
the Pulpit—dead. I think the Indian tried to climb the rock with Bud and
slipped, or they fought up there.”
“Well,” said Flint Moore softly, “maybe it was best that way, Frawley.”
“Yeah, I reckon. Well, I’ll be goin’ on, folks. Good-night.”
Frawley rode away into the night. The rest of the family went into the
house, leaving Pat alone on the porch, as a shadowy figure came from the
bunk-house and walked slowly toward her, with the wolf-dog beside him.
He stopped a short distance away and appeared to hesitate.
“Who goes there?” challenged Pat softly.