"The old fellow has had much trouble," he thought, "but he seems to enjoy the sport of a feudal fight." Wade attended to his own stock and then lay down for a few hours of rest. The strenuous night had been too much for his nerves, but there was much other trouble before him of which he little dreamed as he lay across his bed to rest. He was not long in falling fast asleep, and it was near noon by the sun when he was awakened by the low whine of Rover standing at the door. Wade rose and shook himself much after the fashion of a dog coming out of the water. His head felt heavy, his brain dull. The events of the night before were trying to fix themselves in his memory, but he could not shape them. He had faint recollection of all he had gone through from the time of hearing the dog-horn, the two successive rifle shots, his hasty rush through the fields to Judson's, and then, ah, then, of his acceptance of the invitation to go out into the darkness of the night to watch the fun of flogging a farmer. It all passed hazily through his sleep-clogged brain. He could now see it all just as it happened, the firing of rifles, his own hasty retreat, the running conversation of old Peter Judson, as he encouraged him to keep up a continuous fire on the dark spots in the road behind them; then Peter's exclamation that the end of his finger had been shot away by the murderous marksmen, the escape, and finally the return to his own cabin.
He could not keep these events out of his memory, they were there as dark spots and would remain so forever. Reaching for his coat, he made the discovery that he had narrowly escaped death, for there, a half-inch from the second button from the top, was the tell-tale hole made by a Winchester bullet. He could remember now just when the bullet which had nearly taken his life flew by him. He had heard the "zing!" and the "swish!" but had not suspected that it came so close to boring a hole through his heart. A cold shudder ran over him as he thought of the close proximity to death. Ah, well, that was life in the mountains, that was the fulfillment of the "call of the wilds," and he must not now complain. Wade seemed stupefied. All the while he dreamed the good old brown dog looked longingly up into his careworn face, as if to say, "What's the matter, master?" But there was no reply.
Rover whisked about him from one side to the other, in a vain effort to attract him, but the result was the same, the mystic stupefaction was on him, and he cared not for the dog just then. Of a sudden Rover ran out of the door, baying furiously. Wade looked out and discovered the reason for Rover's action. From toward the city came three men on horseback, riding leisurely. Wade watched them closely as they came on. They were strangers so far as he could tell from the distance that separated them. When they were just opposite the cabin they halted, Wade still watching them. Their actions now seemed a little strange, for one rode around the other two and stood near the gate. Rover was tearing up the earth in his anxiety to get at them. The man near the gate cried out loudly, and Wade, unconscious of lurking danger, went out in answer to the call, unarmed. He had not seen the necessity of arming himself to meet three strangers in bright noonday. The other two lined up near the fence, and when Wade approached, commanding Rover to be quiet, the three men covered him with revolvers. "Hands straight up," said one.
Wade obeyed the command. "What outrage is this?" he asked warmly.
"No outrage at all, friend," said the captain. "It means that we have come to arrest you, and if you make any fuss about it you might be seriously hurt."
"I don't understand," said Wade.
"You will soon enough. You are under arrest in connection with the death of one Lem Franklin, who passed in his checks last night with his boots on."
"What proof have you that I know anything of the death of this Franklin?" asked Wade.
"Sufficient to convict you of murder, sir," was the reply.
"I don't know this Franklin at all."