The road, to Jean's flashing glance, was apparently deserted.

Blue sat on the doorstep, lighting a cigarette.

Then on the moment Blaisdell strode to the door of the cabin.

Jean had never seen him look like that.
"Jean--look--down the road," he said, brokenly, and with big hand shaking he pointed down toward Greaves's store.
Like lightning Jean's glance shot down--down--down--until it stopped to fix upon the prostrate form of a man, lying in the middle of the road.
A man of lengthy build, shirt-sleeved arms flung wide, white head in the dust--dead! Jean's recognition was as swift as his sight.

His father! They had killed him! The Jorths! It was done.