“Stop or I’ll fire!” he shouted.
Falkner paid no attention. He was making for a cottonwood arroyo back of the house.
The rifleman took a long aim and fired. The hunted man stumbled, fell, scrambled to his feet again, ran almost to the edge of the gulch, and sank down once more.
The man who had fired ran past Ruth toward the fallen man. She noticed that he was Sheriff Matson. It is doubtful if he saw her at all. Men emerged from the bunk house, the stable, the corral, and the house. Some were armed, the rest apparently were not. One had been shaving. He had finished one cheek, and the lather was still moist on the other.
The half-shaved man was her foreman, Jennings. At sight of the mistress of the ranch he stopped. She had knelt to pick up the crying baby.
“What’s the row?” he asked.
“Sheriff Matson has just shot Mr. Falkner.” She could hardly speak the words from her dry throat.
“Falkner! How did he come here?”
“Baby and I were snowbound in the old Potier cabin. He broke trail down for us and carried Baby.”
“Gad! And ran right into Matson.”