They had waited for their man as he drove home at nightfall, taking their station at the top of a steep hill, where his horse must be at a walk.

He was so furred to keep out the cold that he could not lay his hand on his pistol.

They had pulled him out and shot him again and again.

He had screamed for mercy.

The screams were repeated for the amusement of the lodge.
"Let's hear again how he squealed," they cried.
None of them knew the man; but there is eternal drama in a killing, and they had shown the Scowrers of Gilmerton that the Vermissa men were to be relied upon.
There had been one contretemps; for a man and his wife had driven up while they were still emptying their revolvers into the silent body.
It had been suggested that they should shoot them both; but they were harmless folk who were not connected with the mines, so they were sternly bidden to drive on and keep silent, lest a worse thing befall them.