The interior of the drab little house on the edge of Death Valley Junction was filled with the horror of violent death. A kerosene lamp with a smoke-blackened chimney burned on a cheap, unpainted chest of drawers, adding its fumes to the stale air of the unventilated room. Clothing which had hung from nails driven into the side wall had been pulled down and lay on the floor. A plain pine table, which apparently had held some rock specimens, had been overturned. On a bed with tumbled blankets against the partition wall was a broken chair, which probably had been hurled in the fatal combat. And upon the floor, sprawled upon its back, eyes staring, face purpled, lay the body of John Foster.
Huntoon Rogers pushed past Ranger Otis Barton and entered the room. d**k Stocker followed, and the res
