"
Mintie's face was white enough now, and her lips were quivering.
"Come you here, child," said her father.
He looked at her steadily.
"You go to bed an' stay there. Not a word! An' don't worry."
Mintie hesitated, opened her mouth and closed it. Then she walked
quietly out of the room.
"What brings you here?" repeated Ransom.
"Murder."
"Murder? Whose murder?"
"This afternoon," replied the 'Piker,' "Jake Farge was shot dead on
your land, not a quarter of a mile from this yere house. His widder
found him and come to me."
"Wal?"
"She says the shot that killed him must ha' bin fired 'bout six. She
heard it, an' happened to look at the clock."
"Wal?"
"She swears that you fired it."
Smoky burst in impetuously--
"At six I kin swear that Pap was a-talkin' to me in his own corral."
The squatters glanced at each other. The 'Piker' laughed derisively.
"In love with his darter, ain't ye?"
"I am--and proud of it!"
"Them your guns?" The spokesman addressed Ransom, indicating the two
rifles.
"One of 'em is mine; t'other belongs to Smoky."
The 'Piker' crossed the room, examined the rifles, opened each, and
peered down the barrels.
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