. Sanders relented a little in his attitude toward the
man. "Well, Silas, when I reely need money, I'll call on you. But don't
lose any sleep on account of that promise, for it'll be many a long day
before I call on you."

With that, Mr. Sanders mounted his horse--known far and wide as the
Racking Roan--and was soon out of sight. His destination was the
residence of Mahlon Butts, and in no long time his horse had covered the
distance.

Although the murder of Hotchkiss was more than a week old, a
considerable number of negroes were lounging about the premises of Judge
Butts--he had once been a Justice of the Peace--and in the road near by,
drawn to the spot by that curious fascination which murder or death
exerts on the ignorant. They moved about with something like awe,
talking in low tones or in whispers. Mr. Sanders tied his horse to a
swinging limb and went in. He was met at the door by Mahlon himself.

"Why, come in, William; come in an' make yourself welcome. You uv heard
of the trouble, I make no doubt, or you wouldn't be here. It's turrible,
William, turrible, for a man to be overcome in this off-hand way, wi' no
time for to say his pra's or even so much as to be sorry for his
misdeeds."

Judge Butts's dignity was of the heavy and oppressive kind. His
enunciation was slow and deliberate, and he had a way of looking over
his spectacles, and nodding his head to give emphasis to his words. This
dignity, which was fortified in ignorance, had received a considerable
reinforcement from the fact that he was a candidate for a county office
on the Republican ticket.

Before Mr. Sanders could make any reply to Mahlon's opening remark, Mrs.
Becky Butts came into the room. She was not in a very good humour, and,
at first, she failed to see Mr. Sanders.

"Mahlon, if you don't go and run that gang of niggers off, I'll take the
shot-gun to 'em. They've been hanging around--why, howdye, Mr. Sanders?
I certainly am glad to see you. I hope you'll stay to dinner; it looks
like old times to see you in the house."

There was something about Mrs. Becky Butts that was eminently satisfying
to the eye. She was younger than her husband, who, at fifty, appeared to
be an old man. Her sympathies were so keen and persistent that they
played boldly in her face, running about over her features as the
sunshine ripples on a pond of clear water.

"Set down, Becky," said Mr. Sanders, after he had responded to her
salutation. "I've come to