The old man knew it must be almost six o'clock; for the light came aslant the gap and the chill of the upper snow crept down from the mountain. A pretty business this, it seemed to him: twenty miles back of beyond; horses sent on at random ahead; a gang of murderers in hiding above--Matthews walked boldly along the precipice trail, saw the eagle below circling, still circling; heard a hawk skirr and scold from a dead branch--Then, he deliberately pointed his voice to the rock wall of the echo across the gorge and let out a yell that split the welkin--A thousand--ten thousand--multitudinous eldritch laughing echoes came jibbering and mumbling and giggling and shrilling back from the rock, filling the Pass with chattering, knocking sounds that skipped from stone to stone. Instantly, a shot, a shout, a bang, the rocking crash of echoes--mixed with ear-splitting, rocketting shots--a crunch of feet--the old man dashed to the hiding of his crag. A spurt of gravel mid showers of dust and snorting of horses--Not on the trail at all but almost over his back, slithered and slid and bunched horses and men, pell mell, the white horse leading the way braced back on its haunches, the fellow in the yellow slicker rumbling a volcano of lurid curses--The outlaws had not followed the goat track at all but jumped sheer from the higher slope to the Pass trail. Shouting "Stop!--Stop!--I command you in the name of the State to stop--!" the old man sprang to the middle of the trail flourishing the rifle above his head. "State be damned," yelled the fellow in the oil-skin slicker. Never pausing, turning only to shoot at wild random, the outlaws had tumbled--stumbled--slid down the slatey slope for the lake.