ain't a bad thing." His dreamy eyes rested on Custer for an
instant; they seemed to invite a question.

"No?" said Custer interrogatively.

"If I was going to murder a man, I don't reckon I'd care to do it when
there was snow on the ground."

Mrs. Shrimplin here suggested cynically that perhaps he dreaded cold
feet, but her husband ignored this. To what he felt to be the
commonplaceness of her outlook he had long since accustomed himself. He
merely said:

"I suppose more criminals has been caught because they done their crimes
when it was snowing than any other way. Only chance a feller would have
to get off without leaving tracks would be in a balloon; I don't know as
I ever heard of a murderer escaping in a balloon, but I reckon it could
be done."

He disliked to relinquish such an original idea, and the subject of
murderers and balloons, with such ramifications as suggested themselves
to his mind, occupied him until dinner-time. He quitted the table to
prepare for his night's work, and at five o'clock backed wild Bill into
the shafts of his high cart, lighted the hissing gasolene torch, and
mounted to his seat.

"I expect he'll want his head to-night; he's got a game look," he said
to Custer, nodding toward Bill. Then, as he tucked a horse blanket
snugly about his legs, he added: "It's a caution the way he gets over
the ground. I never seen a horse that gets over the ground like Bill
does."

Which was probably true enough, for Bill employed every known gait.

"He's a mighty well-broke horse!" agreed Custer in a tone of sincere
conviction.

"He is. He's got more gaits than you can shake a stick at!" said Mr.
Shrimplin.

Privately he labored under the delusion that Bill was dangerous; even
years of singular rectitude on Bill's part had failed to alter his
original opinion on this one point, and he often told Custer that he
would have felt lost with a horse just anybody could have driven, for
while Bill might not and probably would not have suited most people, he
suited him all right.

"Well, good-by, son," said Mr. Shrimplin, slapping Bill with the lines.

Bill went out of the alley back of Mr. Shrimplin's small barn, his head
held high, and taking tremendous strides that somehow failed in their
purpose if speed was the result desired.

Twilight deepened; the snow fell softly, silently, until it became a
ghostly mist that hid the town--hid the very houses on opposite sides of
the street, and through t