afternoon a horse topped the ridge and Kinney came jogging slowly along to the ranch on the trail of the Wind River wolf.
Flash scratched at the bunkhouse door and the lone occupant let him in. From the window he watched Kinney ride up, and as he entered Flash knew this was the man who had hounded him, and his hair bristled as he backed into a comer, his teeth bared savagely.
“Too bad, Flash,” Kinney said, “I’m sorry it’s got to be done.”
Flash wanted to get out of the bunkhouse but was kept there until the rest of the men came in at dusk.
Kinney’s proof was clear. These were hard men. If a friend turned rustler they regretted it—and led his horse under the fatal tree. Flash was a friend but justice must be done. The wolf dog listened to his trial. He could not understand the words but there was menace in the tones and the looks they cast at him. He knew it was connected with the race and a chill dread of death shook him.
The men drew lots from a hat.
“I’m sorry it fell to me,” said one. “I’ll call him outside and get it over with.” He slowly
