The Honor of the McIvors

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THE MAN-KILLERS

CHAPTER I

THE TRAP

There was a hush, a boding silence, in Deadman Canyon, and skirling hawks, flying high against the cliffs, settled down and watched expectantly. A man was riding warily up the Maverick Basin trail, and ahead, like hunting animals, two men were skulking forth to cut him off at the creek. Above them, stuck tight as mud-wasp's nests to the shelves of sun-blackened crags, the white houses of cliff-dwellers, now desolate and tenantless, gazed down upon the age-old tragedy; but the man rode on, his rifle beneath his knee, and at the stalking place of the Scarboroughs he stopped. A stream of cold water, gushing out of a deep side chasm, formed a swirl in the tepid waters of the creek; and close to its edge a flat stone had been laid, where a man could kneel and drink. He knelt, and when he rose up he was looking down a gun.

here

"Put 'em up!" commanded a voice, and he started back defiantly, at which a second voice came from the side.

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"Right quick!" it added, and as the stranger obeyed Isham Scarborough stepped out from behind his rock.

He was tall and slim, as befitted a Texan, with a red, freckled face, lips swollen by the sun, and eyelashes bleached yellowish white. A huge, black hat made him tower like a giant as he glowered down insolently upon his captive and after a long, searching look he jabbed him in the ribs and reached out to take his gun. But the stranger stepped away with waspish quickness and at the look in his eyes Isham flinched and drew back while his brother rose up to shoot. Red Scarborough was short and chunky, with flaming red hair and eyes with a 

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