The tone was so fierce and threatening that there was no room for delay. No man living was more keenly competent to realise the situation than he who had now the worst of it. "All right," he answered. "I'm standing on it. You'll see it when I move my foot." "Don't move a hair else then, or you're a stiff," was the grim uncompromising reply. "Now," went on the fellow, having assured himself that the paper was there, "take six steps backward--six and no more. Quick march!" With the deadly rifle-barrel still covering his heart, Vipan obeyed. "Well! what's the next thing?" he said, and at the same time he noticed that the other carried a lariat rope dangling in loose coils from his left arm. "The next thing, eh?" jeered the fierce aggressor. "I and some of the boys have kept our eye upon you for a good while, and the next thing is we're going to lynch you. Now--Turn round!" The man in his eagerness had made a step forward, with the result that, the little ridge of ground whereon he was standing being slippery with the frost, he missed his footing, stumbled, staggered wildly in his efforts to recover his balance, and finally rolled headlong almost at Vipan's feet. Crack! The aggressor lay writhing in his death-throes. All this time warily on the look-out for the smallest chance in his favour, Vipan, quick as thought, had whipped out the little Derringer which he carried in his breast-pocket, and sent a bullet through his adversary's brain. "I think I've turned the tables on you with effect, my hearty," he said, contemplating the dead man with a savage sneer. Now that there was no further necessity for coolness, his blood boiled at the recent humiliation this fellow had made him undergo. "Ha, ha! Go and tell your two precious `pardners' what a sorry hash you made of it on their account, you miserable idiot, and bait a few more Tartar traps down in the nethermost shades. Ha, ha!" The first thing he did was to pick up and secure the sheet of paper. Then he searched the dead man lest anything bearing upon the cipher might be in his possession, but without avail. He was about to leave the spot, when an idea struck him. For a moment he stood contemplating his late enemy. Bending down, an expression of strong disgust in his face, he gripped the dead man by the hair--a couple of quick slashes, and the scalp was in his hand. Then he drew his knife across the throat of the corpse. "The Sioux--his mark," he muttered, with grim jocosity. "Faugh! Now to stow away this beastly thing," wiping the scalp upon its late proprietor's clothing.