“A man fell into the canyon last night, and we are searching for his body.” “Well, ain’t you nice and kind. Who are you?” “I am the sheriff, sir,” replied Henry. He was getting his wind back now. The man laughed. “Sheriff, eh?” he snarled. “A fine sheriff, you are! Well, Fatty, yo’re all through.” “So you knew about it, too, eh?” remarked Henry. “Knew about what?” asked the masked man. “About the Commissioners going to force me to resign.” “They are, huh? Well, we’ll save paper and ink for ’em, feller.” He turned and called, “One of you fellers fetch a rope.” And as he turned to speak Henry slid off the rock, hit that slope, and went sliding. The man yelled for him to stop. Perhaps he thought it was an accident. At any rate it only required a second or two, before Henry slid onto his gun, grabbed it with both hands, crashed feet-first into the brush and turned over. He had dust in his eyes and misery in his body, but he lifted the gun and shot point-blank at the man at the top of the slope. At that moment Judge fell backwards on the rock, both feet in the air. The man jerked back and yelled: “Damn him, he hit me! Look out--he’s got a gun!” Henry scrambled to his feet and went into the brush, away from that slope, coming up among some huge boulders. He reloaded his gun, ears alert for sounds. A man was cursing viciously. “I’ll get him--don’tcha worry about that!” he said. “He outsmarted yuh once,” said another voice. “Where’d he get that gun? Where’s the other one?” “Get away from that openin’, you fool! He’s down at the foot of that slope.” “Where’d he hit yuh?” “My right arm. Damn him, I’ve got to shoot left-handed.” For a while there was no noise, no conversation. Then somebody began throwing rocks into the brush--rocks about the size of a baseball. One of them crashed off a rock and filled Henry’s eyes with rock-dust. Then a man’s voice said harshly: “Aw, that won’t do no good. We’ve got to git above ’em and shoot down. Yuh can’t see a damn thing in this brush.” “You do it--I can’t. That arm hurts--yeow! Look out! They’re throwin’ rocks, too! That’n hit me in the back. Get down!” For several minutes there was not a sound. Henry hugged the rocks and listened. He knew that any movement must make a noise. Then he heard a man crashing brush, stumbling, panting. He stopped at the foot of the slope, but went on up, his breathing plainly audible. Henry tried to see who he was, but the brush was too thick. Then he heard a thud, a muffled cry, and a crash. “Who was that?” one of the masked men called. “I presume it was one of your friends,” replied Judge’s voice. “He stopped a rock. Now, if you will kindly show yourselves--” “You blasted old fool!” snarled one of the men, and fired three shots in Judge’s general direction, but all it brought was a derisive laugh from the deputy.