The Riddle of the Rangeland THE RIDDLE OF THE RANGELAND By Forbes Parkhill CHAPTER I THE RIDDLE OF THE RANGELAND By Forbes Parkhill CHAPTER I The modern West still keeps many of the old-time thrills, as you who read this captivating novelette of the Wyoming mountains will discover. Mr. Parkhill himself lives in the West; “The Ken-Caryl Case” and other stories have already won him fame as an excellent writing-man. Sheriff Lafe Ogden, long-barreled blue revolver in his hand, knocked lightly on the rough pine door of the Red Rock ranger station. Then he stepped back softly and pressed himself close to the log-and-plaster wall beside his deputy, Seth Markey, and young Otis Carr. There was no answer from within. The Sheriff raised his shaggy brows, pursed his lips and whistled softly. With a jerk of his head in the direction of the others, he stepped forward again. Suddenly he flung the door wide. “Good God!” The exclamation burst from his lips, and checked the sudden advance of the two pushing forward on his heels. “It’s Joe Fyffe himself!” He nodded toward the crumpled figure which lay face downward on the floor. “Dead?” asked Otis Carr in a strange, strained voice as he squeezed his huge bulk through the door. He wondered why he had experienced no great shock at the gruesome discovery. For Joe Fyffe, forest ranger, silent, odd and retiring, had been his friend. The Sheriff dropped to one knee. He placed a hand on the ranger’s wrist. “Been dead quite a spell,” he announced without looking up. “Blood shows that,” the deputy volunteered. “Looky here how it’s dried round the edges, on the floor underneath his arms there. Two, three hours, I reckon.”
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