that?" he added, pointing to the dead body.

"It's Mazarine. He's dead," answered Orlando quietly.

"Oh, good God!" said the other.

He was an insurance agent of the town of Askatoon, who, that very
evening, had heard Orlando threaten the Master of Tralee--that if ever he
passed him or met him, and Mazarine did not get out of the way, it would
be the worse for him. Well, here in the trail were Orlando and Mazarine
--and Mazarine was dead!

"Good God!" the new-comer repeated. Scarsdale was his name.

Then Orlando explained. "It's not what you think," he said. Then he
told the story--such as there was to tell--of what had happened during
the last few moments.

Scarsdale climbed up into the wagon, struck a light, looked at the body
of Mazarine, at his face, and then lifted up the beard and examined the
neck. There were finger-marks in the flesh.

"So, that's it," he said. "Strangled! He seems to have took it easy,
sittin' there like that," he added as he climbed down.

"I don't understand it," remarked Orlando. "As you say, it's weird, his
sitting there like that with the reins in his hands. I don't understand
it!"

"I saw you getting down from the wagon," remarked Scarsdale meaningly.