``Fred was mighty crude about the way he took in cattle'' his own hired man, Andy Ross, mentioned later. ``Everyone knew it, but he sort of acted like he didn't care who knew it -- even after them notes came, even after he'd heard about Lewis, even after he'd been shot at a couple o' times hisself!''

On the morning of September 10, 1895, Powell and Ross rose at dawn and began their day's work. Haying time was close at hand, and they needed some strong branches to repair a hay rack. Harnessing a team to a buckboard, they drove out to a willow lined creek about a half-mile off, then climbed down and began chopping.

Andy Ross had just started swinging an ax at his second willow when the distant blast of a rifle sounded. He looked around in surprise, then noticed that Fred Powell was clutching his chest. The hired man ran over to help his boss.

``My God, I'm shot!'' Powell gasped. And he collapsed and died instantly.

Ross had no intention of searching for the assassin. He heaved the dead man onto the buckboard, yelled and lashed at the team and got out of there fast. But he brought back the sheriff and several deputies, and to the lawmen the entire affair seemed a repetition of the Lewis killing.

A detailed scouring of the entire area revealed nothing beyond a ledge of rocks that might have been the rifleman's hiding place. There were no tracks of either hoofs or boots. Not even an empty cartridge case could be found.