She watched the
burly leader vanish over the brink. Then, one by one, twenty-five
others passed her in review, and were swallowed up by the depths below.
She knew none of them personally, but she knew they were all ranchers
and ranchmen of varying degree. She knew that each individual had at
some time suffered at the hands of the rustlers. That deep in each
heart was the craving for a vengeance which possessed small enough
thought of justice in it. These men were Vigilantes. They were so
called not from any desire to enforce law and order, but purely for
their own self-defense, the defending of self-interests.
They impressed her not from any justice of motive, but from the
merciless purpose upon which they were bent.
The last to pass over the brink was her husband, a slight figure,
almost puny, amongst these hard prairie folk. Just for one weak moment
she was on the point of raising a protesting voice. Just for one
moment a womanly softening held her yielding. He was her husband, and
memories crowded. But almost as they were born they died.
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