Mink said nothing; he sprang aside to avoid the headlong rush of a brute that shot out of the mist and into it again with the swift unreality of an apparition.
Then he spoke suddenly. “Ye never said he rid with a rifle.”
“Who?” asked Doaks, bewildered. He was in advance. He looked back over his shoulder. “Who?” he repeated.
“That thar Herder from Thunderhead.” said Mink.
“Ye dough-faced idjit,—what d’ ye mean?”
Mink pointed silently.
A few yards distant there was a rude barricade of felled trees, laid together after the zigzag manner of a rail fence. It was intended to prevent the cattle from running down a precipitous ravine which it overlooked. Close to it in the mist a cow was lying. There was no mistaking the attitude. The animal was dead. A carefully aimed rifle-ball had penetrated the eye, and buried itself in the brain.
II.
There was blood upon the ground. An awkward attempt had been made to cut the brute’s throat, and, this failing, the rifle had been called into use. Doaks walked up to the animal, and turned her head to look for the brass tag about her horns which would bear her owner’s mark. She wore no tag, and her hide had never known the branding-iron. His eye fell on a peculiar perforation in her ear.