There was no time to leap back or forward; no time even to stir. Already the man's arm was lifted, and though Stratton's hand jerked automatically to his gun, he was too late. An instant later something struck his head with crushing force and crumpled him to the ground. * * * * * When Buck began to struggle out of that black, bottomless abyss of complete oblivion, he thought at first--as soon as he could think at all--that he was lying in his bunk back at the Shoe-Bar. What gave him the idea he could not tell. His head throbbed painfully, and his brain seemed to swim in a vague, uncertain mist. A deadly lassitude gripped him, making all movement, even to the lifting of his eyelids, an exertion too great to be considered. But presently, when his brain had cleared a little, he became aware of voices. One in particular seemed, even in his dreamlike state, to sting into his consciousness with a peculiar, bitter instinct of hatred. When at length he realized that it was the voice of Tex Lynch, the discovery had a curiously reviving effect upon his dazed senses. He could not yet remember what had happened, but intuitively he associated his helplessness with the foreman's presence, and that same instinct caused him to make a desperate attempt to understand what the man was saying. At first the fellow's words seemed blurred and broken, but little by little their meaning grew clearer to the injured man. "... ain't safe ... suspects somethin' ... snoopin' around ever since ... thought he was up to somethin' ... saw him up on that ledge watchin' yuh ... dead sure. I had a notion he'd ride around to this trail, 'cause it's the only way down to north pasture. I tell yuh, Paul, he's wise, an' he'll spill the beans sure. We got to do it." "I don't like it, I tell you!" protested a shrill, high-pitched voice querulously. "I can't stand blood." "Wal, all yuh got to do is go back to the car an' wait," retorted Lynch. "I ain't so partic'lar. Besides," his tone changed subtly, "his head's smashed in an' he's sure to croak, anyhow. It would be an act of kindness, yuh might say." "I don't like it," came again in the shrill voice. "I'd--hear the shot. I'd know what you were doing. It would be on my--my conscience. I'd dream-- If he's going to--to die, as you say, why not just--leave him here?" An involuntary shudder passed over Stratton. It had all come back, and with a thrill of horror he realized that they were talking about him. They were discussing his fate as calmly and callously as if he had been a steer with a broken leg. A feeble protest trembled on his lips, but was choked back unuttered. He knew how futile any protest would be with Tex Lynch.