"You left your hoss standing in the brush near the house," interrupted Bull, "and you went along on foot." "Does that sound reasonable, a gent going on foot when he might ride?" demanded the sheriff. "You didn't want to make no noise," said Bull, and his great voice swallowed the protest of the sheriff. Anderson cast another glance at the listeners. Plainly they were fascinated by this tale, and they were following it step by step with nods. "You didn't make no noise, either," went on Bull Hunter. "You slipped up to the cabin real soft, and you climbed up on the east side of the house over some rocks." "Why in reason should a man climb over rocks? Why wouldn't he go right to the door?" "Because you didn't want to be seen." "Then why not the west window, fool!" "You tried that window first, but they was some dry brush lying in front of it, and you couldn't come close enough to look in without making a noise stepping on the dead wood. So then you went around to the other side and climbed over the rocks until you could look into the cabin. Am I right?" "I--no, curse you, no! Of course you ain't right!" shouted Anderson. "Looking right through that window," said Bull heavily, "you seen Armstrong, the man you hated, facing you, and, with his back turned, was Pete Reeve. You said to yourself, 'Drop Armstrong with a bullet, catch Reeve, and put the blame on him!' Then you pulled your gun." He pushed aside the ponderous armchair which stood beside him at the head of the table. "Say," shouted the sheriff, paler than ever now, "what are you accusing me of?" "Murder!" thundered Bull Hunter. The roar of Bull's voice chained every one in his place, the sheriff with staring eyes, and Jud in the act of raising his hand. "I'll jail you for slander!" said the sheriff, fighting to assurance and knowing that he was betrayed by his pallor and by the icy perspiration which he felt on his forehead. "Anderson," said Bull, "I seen the marks of them iron heels of yours on the rock!" That was a little thing, of course. As evidence it would not have convinced the most prejudiced jury in the world, but Sheriff Anderson was not weighing small points. Into his mind leaped one image--the whiteness of those rocks on which he had stood and the indelible mark his heels must have made against that whiteness. He was lost, he felt, and he acted on the impulse to fight for his life. One last glance he cast at the six listeners, and in their wide-eyed interest he read his own damnation. Then Anderson whirled and leaped for his belt with the guns. Out of six throats came six yells of fear; there was a noise of chairs being pushed back and a wild scramble to find safety under the table. Jud, risking a moment's delay, knocked the chimney off the lamp before he dived. The flame leaped once and went out, but the pale moonshine poured through the window and filled the room with a weird play of shadows.