that oft-repeated call for help that came
wailing from the black shadows beyond the slaughter-house. Suddenly
Custer answered the call with a reassuring cry.

"Perhaps it's another murder!" he said.

"Oh, my God!" gasped Shrimplin, and there flashed through his mind the
horror of that other night.

Custer slipped out of the cart.

"Come on!" he cried.

He was vaguely conscious that his father was not seizing the present
opportunity to distinguish himself with any noticeable avidity. He had
expected to see that conqueror of bad men and cow-towns, the somewhat
ruthless but always manful slayer of one-eye Murphy, descend from his
cart with astonishing alacrity, and heedless in his tried courage stride
down into the darkness beyond the slaughter-house. But Mr. Shrimplin did
nothing of the sort, he made no move to quit his seat. Surely something
had gone very wrong with the William Shrimplin of Custer's fancy, the
young Bill Shrimplin of Texarcana and similar centers of crime and
hardihood.

"Custer--" began Mr. Shrimplin, in a shaking voice. "I am wondering if
it wouldn't be best to drive on into town and get a cop--Oh, my God, why
don't you quit hollering!"

"Maybe they're killing him now!" cried Custer breathlessly.

He could not yet comprehend his father's attitude in the matter, he
could only realize that for some wholly inexplicable reason he was
falling far short of his ideal of him; he seemed utterly to have lost
his eye for the spectacular possibilities of the moment. Why share the
credit with a cop, why ask help of any one!

"You don't need no help, pa!" he said.

"Well, I don't know as I do," replied the little man, but he made no
move to leave his cart, his fears glued him to the seat.

"Come on, then!" insisted Custer impatiently.

"Don't you feel afraid, son?" inquired Mr. Shrimplin, with marked
solicitude.

"Not with you!"

"Well, I don't know as you need to!" admitted Shrimplin. "But I don't
feel quite right--I reckon I feel sort of sick, Custer--sort of--"

"Oh, come on--hurry up!"

"I don't know but I ought to see a doctor first--" faltered Mr.
Shrimplin in a hollow tone.

Misery of soul twisted his weak face pathetically.

"Why you act like you was _afraid!_" said Custer, with withering
contempt.

His words cut the elder Shrimplin like a knife; but they did not move
him from his seat in the cart.

"You bet I ain't afraid, Custer,--and that's no way for you to speak to
your pa, a