THERE was a hush, a boding silence, in Deadman Canyon, and skirling hawks, flying high againstched expectantly. A man was riding warily up the Maverick Basin trail, and ahead, like htmting animals, two men were skulking forth to cut him off at the creek. Above them, stuck tight as mud-wasp's nests to the shelves of sun-blackened crags, the white houses of cliflf-dwellers, now desolate and tenantless, gazed down upon the age-old tragedy; but the man rode on, his rifle beneath his knee, and at the stalking place of the Scarboroughs he stopped. A stream of cold water, gashing out of a deep side chasm, formed a swirl in the tepid waters of the creek; and close to its edge a flat stone had been laid, where a man could kneel and drink. He knelt, and when he rose up he was looking down a gun. "Put 'em up!" commanded a voice, and he started back defiantly, at which a second voice came from the side.