“In what essential does it differ from the affair over on the Red Desert?” demanded Cavanagh. “Who would kill these poor sheep-herders but cattle-men warring for the grass on which we stand?”
“But they would not dare to do such work themselves.”
“No one else would do it. Hired assassins would not chop and burn. Hate and greed were both involved in this butchery—hate and greed made mad by drink. I tell you, the men who did this are less than a day’s ride of where we stand.”
A silence followed—so deep a silence that the ranger was convinced of the fact that in the circle of his listeners stood those who, if they had not shared in the slaughter, at least knew the names of the guilty men.
At last the sheriff spoke, this time with a sigh. “I hope you’re all wrong, Cavanagh. I’d hate to think any constituent of mine had sanctioned this job. Give me that lantern, Curtis.”
The group of ranchers dismounted, and followed the sheriff over to the grewsome spot; but Redfield stayed with the ranger.
“Have you any suspicion, Ross?”
“No, hardly a suspicion. However, you know as well as I that this was not a sudden outbreak. This deed was planned. It represents the feeling of many cattle-men—in everything but the extra horror of its execution. That was the work of drunken, infuriated men. But I am more deeply concerned over Miss Wetherford’s distress. Did she reach you by telephone to-night?”
“No. What’s the trouble?”
“Her mother is down again. I telephoned her, and she asked me to come to her, but I cannot go, for I have a case of smallpox up on the hill. Ambro, the Basque herder, is down with it, and another herder is up there alone with him. I must go back to them. But meanwhile I wish you would go to the Fork and see what you can do for her.”