"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."