“I heard the rifle shot,” Dick explained, “and rode up from the canyon below to have a look. I found him here, huddled up just as you see him by the side of the road.”
“Who the devil did this?” asked Jack Rover, contemplating the corpse.
“God only knows,” replied Dick. “You take him on your saddle, Bob,” he added, addressing the big cowboy, whose horse was a full hand taller than the other ponies and more stalwart in proportion.
And so the cortege was formed, Jack Rover leading the way, with Bob and the body following and Dick Willoughby bringing up the rear.
The sun was low when at last they gained the rancho. They made their way quietly round to the bunk house and quite tenderly swathed the mortal remains of the young boss in a blanket, before carrying it to his father’s home.
At the sound of approaching footsteps old Ben Thurston, with Leach Sharkey close on his heels, emerged onto the verandah. There was no need to announce the death of his son—the ominous bundle told its own sad tale. The ranch owner stared at it, horrified, inarticulate from a conflict of emotions, the hunted look of terror again in his eyes. Leach Sharkey took up the work of interrogation.
“How did it happen?” He was addressing Jack Rover, who chanced to stand next to him after helping to deposit the body on a bench that stood conveniently against the wall.
“Dick Willoughby heard the shot up among the woods, and found him lying dead on the road.”
Sharkey advanced a pace or two and confronted Dick.
“Who fired the shot?”