He knotted his bandage neatly and was rising to his feet when from the darkness behind him he heard a dull thumping sound, followed by a snort of heavy breathing. Turning in surprise, he crossed back to the hollow of the ground where his pony lay fallen in the snow.

Until this moment he had taken it for granted that Susy had killed herself. But he saw now that she was still alive, trying feebly to lift up her head. He crouched beside her and at once ascertained that both forelegs were broken.

Momentarily his hand strayed forward to touch the warm muzzle in the snow, and then, with features drawn and set, he stood up to fumble at his holster flap. He and Susy had traveled the ranges together for two years, sharing hardship and peril and the glory of sunny days. But time passes, and weather changes, and companions must sometimes separate. Like the men, the horses of the police were employed in an extra-hazardous service. Dexter was used to swift leave-takings; had long since learned to accept death with fatalistic fortitude. He was drawing his pistol from its holster when a foot crunched behind him, and Alison Rayne stepped forward to gaze over his shoulder.

"It was my fault," the girl whispered. "The horse ran away with me, but I didn't need to--I could have walked. The poor thing--is suffering! And I—it was my—She choked, unable to finish and began to cry.

The corporal shouldered her aside and advanced in the darkness. There was a brief silence, broken by a heavy report, and Dexter stalked back again, thrusting a pistol into his holster. His searchlight discovered the girl standing with her hands over her ears to shut out the sound, sobbing piteously, with great tears welling from her eyes. "I'm sorry—sorry!" she whimpered.

"It was Susy's fault—mostly," he told her gruffly. "She should have known better than to gallop on this ground." He faced the girl in curiosity, marveling at the strange complexity and inconsistencies that make up the nature of womankind. Here was one who cried in remorse and pity because a horse had to be shot. He had observed no tears shed over two men, who had been wantonly and ruthlessly killed. As he studied her sensitive features, he found it increasingly difficult to believe that she could be the woman whose footprints led from the scene of tragedy. Yet her boots matched the prints he had followed, and there was no other departing trail.

"Did you set fire to that cabin?" he asked abruptly.

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