There was the pound--pound--the huffing of saddle leather--and a horse came spurring along the Pass trail at reckless gallop. The old man flung himself athwart--a rider in sheep-skin leggings, hat far back, came round the rock at break neck pace looking over his shoulder as if pursued--One jump--the old frontiersman had the horse's bridle! The shock threw the beast's hind legs clear over the edge jarring the rider almost to the animal's neck. Next--the old man was looking down the barrel of the outlaw's big repeater--With a mighty swing, Matthews clubbed his rifle on the other's wrist. He might have scruples as to law and conscience; but he knew how and when and where to hit, did the Briton with the Scotch-Canadian blood. Also he knew when to let go--There was a flash--the rock splintering crash of echo, the whinnying scream and leap of the horse shot by the falling weapon--Rider and beast hurtled backwards, the man's foot caught to one stirrup--There was the crackling of slate and shale--the gash and rasp and wrench of loosening rock masses sliding--down--down--down and yet down, with knocking echoes; with laughter of terrified scream from the echo rock across the gorge--pound and plunge from ledge to ledge--the horse's body turning twice as it struck and bounced out--a cloud of dust--the shout, the blasphemy, the cry of rage, then the shrill scream of death terror that echoed and echoed--The old man looked down! There was a pounding of the stones--a faint far rebound and the darkness below swallowed over a fading swirl at the bottom of the canyon. He heard, he thought, he heard the engulfing gurgle of the waters, while the shrill scream still jibbered and faded along the echo ledge. "By violence ye lived--by violence ye die--over the precipice ye go as ye sent the mangled boy to the bloody death!" Then the Ranger was tumbling down the goat track in a slither of shale. "Come on--that was well done, sir! Wish we'd sent them all over to the very bottom of Hell--! I'd stalked that fellow apart from the others when you signaled--come on--we'll catch the rest at the lake--there's a fellow wounded--you must have nipped one when you shot this morning--join me at the lake," and leaving Matthews to follow by the foot trail, the delirious Ranger went tearing exultant down the stone slide. Water-muffled shots sounded from the lake. Wayland paused in his head-long descent. The five outlaws were shoving the punt from the shore with the bronchos swimming in tow. The stolen wagon horses, lay shot on the shore. One of the outlaws was being supported by the others. It was the man in the yellow slicker.