CHAPTER XXI
The first faint streaks of gray lightened the sky above the eastern peaks and the marshal’s men arose—and found old Dad Kinney seated on a log. He called Moran aside.
“I left Flash with her,” he said. “Son, I’m going to mix into this deal myself. Nash was the man that sent Harte out to do his killing. Teton Jackson was my friend. I crave just one good look at Nash somewhere within three hundred yards before I die.” A relic of early days swung at his hip. The gun which had answered in the past was good enough for him now. It was the Frontier Model Colt, the Riera black powder forty-five of the Seventies.
A horse neighed from the meadow and another answered from the hills. Ten minutes later Harmon rode up to the fire.
It was Vermont’s plan to locate the trail at the head of the canyon that day and attack from both ends the next. Day was just breaking when the ranger, the marshal, Kinney and Moran put their
