."

James Warren was a stout, thick-set man, about forty years of age. He
was an American by birth, but he had lived for many years in Compton
County. It was said that he had made a good deal of money by smuggling
goods into the States. He had the reputation of being a hard liver, and
something of a braggart.

Warren had been sworn in as a special constable to arrest Donald. Armed
with the warrant, he had lounged round the village of Megantic watching
his opportunity. He made loud boasts that he would take Morrison dead or
alive. He pulled out a pistol. This gave emphasis to the threat. We
have already said that Donald always went armed. Sometimes he carried a
rifle: more generally a couple of six-shooters.

Warren was in the hotel drinking. It was about noon on a beautiful day
in June.

One of the villagers rushed into the bar.

"Here's Morrison coming down the street," he said, in a tone of
excitement.

"All right," said Warren, "this is my chance."

"You daren't arrest him," a by-stander said.

"Daren't I, by ----," he replied. "Here, give me a drink of whiskey."

He quaffed the glass, and went out to the front. Donald was coming
towards him. He saw Warren, and crossed to the other side to avoid him.

Warren went over and intercepted him.

"You've got to come with me," said Warren, pulling out the warrant.

"Let me pass," Donald replied in firm, commanding tones, "I want to have
nothing to do with you."

"But, by ----, I have something to do with you," Warren angrily
retorted. "You have got to come with me, dead or alive."

"What do you mean?" Donald demanded, while his right hand sought his
hip pocket.

"I mean what I say," Warren replied, fast losing control over himself.
Pulling out his revolver, he covered Donald, and commanded him to
surrender.

About a dozen people watched the scene in front of the hotel, chained to
the spot with a species of horrible fascination.

The moment that Donald saw Warren pull out his revolver, and cover
him with it, he clenched his teeth with a deadly determination, and,
whipping out his own weapon, and taking steady aim, he fired.

Warren, with his pistol at full cock in his hand, fell back--dead!

The bullet had entered the brain through the temple.

Donald bent over him, saw that he was dead, and, muttering between his
teeth, "It was either my life or his," walked down the street out of
sight.

Warren lay in a pool of blood, a ghastly spectacle. Some poo