"_You_ ought to be, and scootin' out o' this," said Breckenridge
grimly. "It's all very well to 'know nothin';' but here Phil
Larrabee's friends hev just picked him up, drilled through with slugs
and deader nor a crow, and now they're lettin' loose Larrabee's two
half-brothers on you. And you must go like a derned fool and leave
these yer things behind you in the bresh," he went on querulously,
lifting Madison Clay's dust-coat, hat, and shotgun from his horse,
which stood saddled at the door. "Luckily I picked them up in the
woods comin' here. Ye ain't got more than time to get over the state
line and among your folks thar afore they'll be down on you. Hustle,
old man! What are you gawkin' and starin' at?"

Madison Clay had stared amazed and bewildered--horror-stricken.
The incidents of the past night for the first time flashed upon him
clearly--hopelessly! The shot; his finding Salomy Jane alone in
the woods; her confusion and anxiety to rid herself of him; the
disappearance of the shotgun; and now this new discovery of the taking
of his hat and coat for a disguise! _She_ had killed Phil Larrabee
in that disguise, after provoking his first harmless shot! She, his
own child, Salomy Jane, had disgraced herself by a man's crime; had
disgraced him by usurping his right, and taking a mean advantage, by
deceit, of a foe!

"Gimme that gun," he said hoarsely.

Breckenridge handed him the gun in wonder and slowly gathering
suspicion. Madison examined nipple and muzzle; one barrel had been
discharged. It was true! The gun dropped from his hand.

"Look here, old man," said Breckenridge, with a darkening face,