The door opened and Mr. Cotterell entered.
“Mr. Cotterell! What are you here for?” gasped Olive, as he came in and stood in the light, gaunt-eyed and hollow-cheeked.
“I am flying for my life, Mrs. Weston. The men are out hunting me down. I have come to ask your help. Where is your husband?”
“He is gone away to Mapleton.”
“Ah!” said Cotterell, with a sigh that had some relief in the sound. “Then you will help me, won’t you?”
“What have you done?” asked Olive, gazing at him in terror. He was wild-looking and so different from the charming gentleman she had known before.
“I’ve shot Jake Mills,” he replied, without any attempt at dissimulation.
“Do you mean that you’ve murdered him?” gasped Olive, starting back from him.
“Good God! Mrs. Weston, no. I’ve not murdered him, although he is dead by my hand. There’s been a quarrel between us about some land he rented from me. He was a very low-bred fellow and violent, and I despised him, and—well, I said some harsh things to him about cheating the last time we met. He swore that he would pay me out. He came to my cabin the other day. I don’t know how long ago, it seems a life-time. He was mad with drink and fury. I told him he was a hound. He whipped out his revolver and fired at me, but he was too tipsy to aim straight, his shots went wide of the mark. Well, I got my shot in, I was not drunk. That is how it was, Mrs. Weston. Upon my honour as a man, that is the exact truth, you would not call it murder, would you?”
“No, it was in self-defence. But why didn’t you go and tell the neighbours at once? They understand that sort of thing on the prairie.”