"Well, Hugh," he said, "there was something happened yesterday that I want to tell you about; though I shouldn't say anything about it to anybody else, unless it gets to be talked about. You speak about the country being in a bad way and no good any more, and sometimes I think you're right. Now something happened yesterday over at Powell's that I wouldn't have believed could have taken place in a country where there are men, and American men at that! It isn't a thing I want to talk about, but I do want to tell you about it, and to ask you whether you think what I did was right. I am not doubtful about it myself, but I'd like to have your opinion, too."
With that Jack opened his heart and told Hugh all the events of the day before.
The story finished, Hugh sat for some time without speaking, looking at his pipe which had gone out while he listened. At last he raised his eyes.
"Well, son, I think that what you did was the wisest possible thing to have done. Of course you didn't have much choice in the matter. You were bound to do whatever Mrs. Powell and little Bess said that they wanted done, but as it happens what they wanted done was the best thing that could have been done. It surely would have been mighty uncomfortable for those two women—as nice women as I ever saw—to have a man lynched on their account, as you might say, right close to the house. It was up to you to help them out of that scrape, and you did it sensibly and well. I'm not a mite surprised at Bessie's killing that man. She's a mighty smart little girl; thinks quick and acts quick. I expect if she hadn't shot as she did, there's no telling what amount of deviltry those two men might have been up to."
"You're right, Hugh, she's plucky and a good shot, and she must have been mighty quick to think what to do; but, I tell you, it made her feel mighty bad to be obliged to do it, and for a while after she had shot she looked as white as a ghost."
"Davis?" reflected Hugh. "I am trying to see if I can't recollect that name. What sort of looking fellow was the one that got killed?"
"He looked like 'most anybody else, except that he had a more or less hooked nose, and a black mustache. Mrs. Powell said that his eyes looked sharp and snappy, and sort of cruel; but of course I didn't see his eyes."
"I was wondering," said Hugh. "Years ago, down in old Nebraska, I used to know a cow puncher named Bill Davis, and he might have been this man. The description fits him well enough, but I don't know as it makes much difference, seeing he's dead. You say you didn't find any letters or papers on him."
"Nothing; nothing except a pipe and tobacco and matches, and a little small change."
"Of course, you don't know anything of what become of the other fellow?"