There was a snorting of horses, a violent oath, and Hank Emory came to view as of old, his animal rearing wildly at the bit’s yank and sliding to a halt. The other two brothers trailed behind. The elder bully jumped from the saddle and stood before Cameron with his red-rimmed eyes growing bloodshot. “My land, Methodist, and I’ll tell ye to git off sudden.” He was shaking his head like an angry, uncertain bear. “First come first served,” countered Tom. “Which is us.” “I guess not. Wa’n’t no sight of you when we came. Moreover we paid fair for the location.” Then he took a bold shot. “If you wanted it why didn’t you stick--why didn’t you mark the corners?” “Hey?” shouted Emory. “Tryin’ to make a fool out of me, you ginger-bread dandy? I ain’t traipsin’ around lookin’ fer corners to mark. We war here fust and that settles it. You’ll go, and you’ll take yore friends to boot. Fool me? I guess not! Clear out!” Cameron inclined his ear to some not-far-off sound. “When you stepped over that draw you abandoned this piece o’ land, leavin’ it unmarked. Whoever reached it next had fair claim to it. That’s us. Moreover we’ve got stakes out now on a couple corners for good measure. That settles it as far as preemption goes. We’re in possession lawfully and aim to stay.” As he finished, Warner arrived and slid from his horse. “Found one nice little pile o’ rocks nigh to the summit and jest considered it as one of our corners. No sign of anything else. She’s yours lawfully.” But Cameron had no attention for him. His eyes were upon Hank Emory, whose red lids squinted under the sudden rising fury. The black head dropped in unison with the gun arm. The brothers spread out fanwise. “Ho!” yelled Follett and brought up the buffalo weapon. He was far too slow. Emory’s pistol was in the air, breast-high, when Cameron shot. There was no answering bullet; the leader of this boisterous group, bereft of his animal vitality, of his huge voice and scowl, fell like a sack of meal, with never a single word to announce his passing--a faint look of surprise on his face. The brothers stood irresolute, guns half out, covered by Warner and Follett. From the wagon Susan looked compassionately down at the dead man. “Tom, Tom--I’ll be forever sorry!” “No need to be. It’s been a long time brewin’, and somebody had to end it. ’Twas now or later; me or somebody else; this quarrel or another quarrel. The man was made for a sudden death.” He motioned to the remaining pair. “Pick him up and take him away. Reckon you’ll find it inconvenient to come back.” They did as told, hoisting the body into the saddle and, supporting it between them, rode away into the mists.