The crust on the snow was steadily hardening. The frost had teeth. Clear of that fire they moved in a luminous darkness. Clouds made the sky very black above. Underfoot the snow made a pale glimmer. The way became deceptive. Left to himself, Charlie Shaw would scarcely have known north from south, east from west, except for the run of the coulee, dipping uniformly from the flats to the valley of the Missouri. He would have had difficulty finding his way back to the round-up camp. But Mather plodded at a slow trot, at a walk where the snow lay deeper. Here and there it took a horse to the belly. He never hesitated. They crossed plateaus, slid into gulches, floundered in high sage, passed clumps of pine that made black blotches on the snow. And at last he angled down a steep hillside into a narrow bottom where they passed ghastly cottonwoods, and suddenly buildings loomed before them, the high pole wall of a round corral. Mather stopped. “Dark as the grave,” he whispered. “I don’t like it. There always used to be a couple of hounds that made a row when anybody rode up.” They tied their horses to the pole corral. “You stay here,” Bill whispered. “I don’t like this quiet. I’m goin’ to the house. If it’s all right, I’ll holler for you.” “Everybody asleep, most likely,” Charlie commented. “It’s past midnight, man.” “I know,” the boy muttered. “Just the same--you wait till I look in the house. I got a funny feelin’.” He moved away. Cracks had opened here and there in the cloud bank. Charlie could see him dimly, crossing the yard. The house was a vague blur, black walls under a snow-capped roof. He heard the creak of a door. After that, no sound for a minute. Then a match flared yellow through a window. It went dark, flared again, became the steady glow of a lamp. But there was no hail. Once a shadow fell on the uncurtained panes. Charlie’s feet grew cold in the snow. He grew impatient. No way to leave a man, cooling his heels on a frosty night. “Gosh darn these fool people an’ their family troubles,” he grumbled. Then, between impatience and discomfort, he started for the house. It was a low-walled structure. The windows opened on a level with his waist. The door stood ajar, casting a knife-blade gleam. The window laid a bright square on the snow. Abreast of it Charlie stopped. A man lay face down on the floor, his head turned sidewise, arms spread in a crooked curve. He had black hair like Bill Mather’s. His face, white in the lamplight, was very like Bad Land Bill’s, only it was curiously twisted, the mouth open, slack jawed. A white-handled gun lay just beyond the fingertips of one hand. Bill Mather stood over him, staring like a man shocked and bewildered. Charlie stepped into the doorway. His rider turned like a cat. His gun came halfway out of its holster on his hip. “Looks like your hunch was right.” Charlie said.