come, and she's mighty hard up. And that gave me an idea. I don't know,"
he went on, regarding the Colonel with gloomy doubt, "as you'll think it
was much; I don't know as you wouldn't call it a d----d fool idea, but I
got it all the same." He stopped, hesitated, and went on. "You see this
man, Frisbee or Jeffcourt, was my pardner. We were good friends up to
the killing, and then he drove me hard. I think I told you he drove me
hard,--didn't I? Well, he did. But the idea I got was this. Considerin'
I killed him after all, and so to speak disappointed them, I reckoned
I'd take upon myself the care of that family and send 'em money every
month."

The Colonel slightly straitened his clean-shaven mouth. "A kind of
expiation or amercement by fine, known to the Mosaic, Roman, and old
English law. Gad, sir, the Jews might have made you MARRY his widow
or sister. An old custom, and I think superseded--sir, properly
superseded--by the alternative of ordeal by battle in the mediaeval
times. I don't myself fancy these pecuniary fashions of settling
wrongs,--but go on."

"I wrote her," continued Corbin, "that her son was dead, but that he and
me had some interests together in a claim, and that I was very glad to
know where to send her what would be his share every month. I thought it
no use to tell her I killed him,--may be she might refuse to take it. I
sent her a hundred dollars every month since. Sometimes it's been pretty
hard sleddin' to do it, for I ain't rich; sometimes I've had to borrow
the money, but I reckoned that I was only paying for my share in this
here business of his bein' dead, and I did it."

"And I understand you that this Jeffcourt really had no interest in your
claim?"