those dead lips might open and speak.




CHAPTER IV

JUSTICE

Dawn bared the smouldering evidence of that dastardly attack. The
stable and the lean-to, where Annersley had stored his buckboard and a
few farm implements when winter came, the corral fence, the haystack,
were feathery ashes, which the wind stirred occasionally as a raw red
sun shoved up from behind the eastern hills. The chicken-coop, near
the cabin, had not been touched by the fire. Young Pete, who had
fallen asleep through sheer exhaustion, was awakened by the cackling of
the hens. He jumped up. It was time to let those chickens out.
Strange that his pop had not called him! He rubbed his eyes, started
suddenly as he realized that he was dressed--and then he
remembered . . .

He trembled, fearful of what he would see when he stepped into the
other room. "Pop!" he whispered. The hens cackled loudly. From
somewhere in the far blue came the faint whistle of a hawk. A board
creaked under his foot and he all but cried out. He stole to the
window, scrambled over the sill, and dropped to the ground. Through
habit he let the chickens out. They rushed from the coop and spread
over the yard, scratching and clucking happily. Pete was surprised
that the chickens should go about their business so casually. They did
not seem to care that his pop had been killed.