The half hour that followed the attempt upon Deputy d**k Stocker’s life at the ranch in Death Valley was one of confusion, of anxiety and of extraordinary activity. Huntoon Rogers stood for a moment over the collapsed figure of the deputy, who lay limply stretched out upon the bed, then abruptly quitted the room. Ranger Otis Barton already had rushed away to the telephone at camp headquarters.
“He ran that way,” shouted a woman’s voice from the crowd gathered outside the door. “Right by our cottage. I could have seen who he was if the light had been brighter. My husband said it was only a backfire, but I didn’t believe it.”
“Which way?” Rogers’ voice demanded.
“That way. Down toward the stables.”
I looked at Morris Pine. The newspaperman had made no effort to follow either Rogers or Ot
