barked furiously as somebody
hammered hard upon the door.

"Who can it be?" said Mintie nervously.

Smoky Jack opened the door; four or five men came in. At the door
opposite appeared Ransom.

"What is it?" he asked harshly. "What brings you here at this time o'
night?"

The leader of the party, a tall 'Piker,' answered as curtly--

"Business."

"What business?"

"I don't talk business afore wimmenfolks."

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. He glanced at the other squatters, and said
laconically--

"Quite clean--as might be expected."

Ransom betrayed his surprise very slightly. He had just remembered
that he had left an empty cartridge in his rifle, and that it was not
clean.

The 'Piker' turned to him again.

"You claim that you know nothing o' this job?"

"Not a thing."

"And you?"

The big 'Piker' stared superciliously at Smoky.

"Same here," said Smoky.

The visitors glanced at each other, slightly nonplussed. The big
'Piker' swore in his beard. "We'll arrest the hull outfit," he said
decidedly, "and carry 'em in to San Lorenzy."

"You ain't, the sheriff nor his deputy," said Ransom. "What d'ye
mean," he continued savagely, "by coming here with this ridic'lous
song and dance? There's the door. Git!"

"You threatened to shoot Farge," said the 'Piker.' "An' it's my