This was about the last that the brave officer said, excepting the utterance of some gentle words to his distracted wife. At a little past-nine o’clock, the morning of the sixth of June, 1875, seven hours subsequent to receiving his wound, Benj. F. Yost breathed his last breath on earth, and one of the most cruel murders of all the great number perpetrated by the Mollie Maguires was consummated. It was even then implicitly believed to have been the work of the order, as, outside its blood-stained ring, Yost did not have an enemy. The fact, also commonly credited, that the assassins were strangers in the borough, or at least not residents of it, gave color to this supposition. The carnival of blood had fairly commenced. This deed was speedily to be followed by others of an equally mysterious nature, and no man could tell whose turn must come next. McCarron gave it up, after questioning Yost, that neither Kerrigan nor Duffy, both of whom were enemies of the dead policeman, from the same cause, having been arrested by him while they were drunk, and, resisting, having felt the weight of his baton, had fired the fatal shot; still it could not be erased from his memory or belief that they possibly knew something about it. Thinking of the men he had noted at Carroll’s, and to whom Yost had, on the occasion, made allusion, the partner of the deceased determined, unknown to any person, to make an investigation of the locality, and find if the same persons were still there. The hour was nigh half-past four in the morning. Yost was fast losing consciousness. McCarron went to Carroll’s, but, after walking about the house and into the back yard, he saw no lights, heard no sounds, or anything to indicate that people were astir in the dwelling or saloon. Evidently all were in bed. Nothing could be discovered of either citizens or strangers, and he therefore returned to Yost’s residence and there remained until taking the eternal farewell of his friend and companion. B. F. Yost was thirty-three years of age, and universally respected in Tamaqua, his widow constituting not the only one that shed bitter tears over his untimely taking off. Hundreds of men and women in the city, who knew his brave, frank, and honest heart, and remembered the warm, firm grasp of his strong hand, felt that they could mingle their tears with those of the one left wholly bereaved and desolate by the murderous bullet of the cowardly assassin. Some of these thought that crime had now gone its length, and it was time its course was ended. They had only seen the beginning, but believed the end was in view. Among this class were many men of wealth and influence, and those who grieved to see the fair fame of their home smirched with innocent blood. They then determined, if they could prevent, violence should no longer reign in Schuylkill County. ————●———— CHAPTER XXXV.