lence, perhaps the bedded sheep unwatched and a heap of gray ashes, but a herder's well-mended fire had not had a place in his calculations at all. Twenty-four hours had passed since the murder, and yet the flame still flickered like a soul that could not pass. Was it a ghost fire: was the shapeless shadow that he thought he could make out beside it the specter of one who had risen from Death to watch the sheep? The sight went straight home to his dark superstitions.
Just for a moment he sat motionless in the saddle; then he started to turn back. His eyes bulged ever so slightly. And then a great cold seemed to come down, stab, and transfix him.
For a voice spoke from the camp. It came clear and strong into the darkness where he waited. "Who's there?" some one asked.
Except for his sudden gusty breathing, Fargo made no sound in reply. He started to turn his horse.
"If you don't answer, I'll think it's a coyote and shoot," the voice came again. "I give you till I count three "
Fargo had won his point by bluffing many times, he had known how to call the bluffs of other men; but he had no delusions about the hard, quiet voice that came out to him from the fireside. Very plainly the man meant what he said. But at least it wasn't Dan the herder who had risen and spoken. The tones and words were not the melodious utterances of the Italian la-
