“How in hell do I know?” Kimball answered thickly, reaching unsteadily for the bottle. “You’re a sick man, Hansen, or I’d beat you up for th’ way you’re talkin’ to me.”
The sick man raised himself from the pillows again with a snort of anger, his face flushed, his eyes gleaming feverishly.
“It’s a long road that’s got no turn in it!” he muttered. “It’s my money that’s in this plantation, Kimball—my money against your experience. And keep that damned arrow pointed th’ other way, you fool! You’re drunk—too drunk to be monkeyin’ with weapons. You’d just as soon shoot me as not: if you do, I’ll get you if I have to come back from th’ grave to do it! And remember this, Kimball: Soon’s I’m able to be up and around again, we’ll have a settlement. And out you’ll go from this plantation, you—”
Whether it was an accident, or plain murder nobody knows. Kimball was drunk—beastly so. The arrow was loaded in the bow and clasped between his trembling fingers, the bow-string taut. And Hansen had annoyed him, angered him, bullied him, cursed him. At any rate, as he slumped forward in his chair, the bow-string slipped from between his thumb and finger, and—
Hansen dropped back onto the pillows with a smothered scream, the arrow buried deep in his temple!
II.
IT WAS past midnight when Kimball awoke from his drunken stupor.
For an instant, he had no recollection of what had happened. The oil lamp still burned brightly, throwing the figure of the man on the bed in bold relief.
Kimball half arose on his tiptoes so as not to awaken Hansen. His foot touched the bow lying on the floor. Then a flood of realization swept over him. He suddenly remembered that he was a murderer.
Whether he had killed Hansen intentionally or not he was unable to recall. Memory had ceased on the second he sprawled forward, his tired brain benumbed with the liquor he had consumed during the evening. He knew that they had quarreled—that Hansen had been more abusive than usual and had cursed him.