britching and then the other end of him come up
and he acted like he wanted to set down on the singletree!"

"Why did he do that?" asked Custer.

"Well, I guess you've got some few things to learn, Custer;" said Mr.
Shrimplin indulgently. "He smelt blood--that's what he smelt!"

"Oh!" gasped Custer.

"I've knowed it to happen before. It's instinct," explained Shrimplin.
"'Singular,' says I, and out I jumps to have a look about. I walked to
the lamp-post, and then I seen what I hadn't seen before, that old man
McBride's store door was open, so I stepped on to the sidewalk intending
to close it, but as I put my hand on the knob I seen where the snow had
drifted into the room, so I knew the door must have been open some
little time. That's mighty odd, I thinks, and then it sort of come over
me the way Bill had acted, and I went along into the store in pretty
considerable of a hurry."

"Were you afraid?" demanded Custer in an awe-struck whisper.

"I'll tell you the truth, Custer, I wasn't. I own I'd drawed my gun,
wishing to be on the safe side. First thing I noticed was that the lamps
hadn't been turned up, though they was all lit. I got back to the end of
the counter when I came to a halt, for there in a heap on the floor was
old man McBride, with his head mashed in where some one had hit him
with a sledge. There was blood all over the floor, and it was a mighty
sickenin' spectacle. I sort of looked around hoping I'd see the
murderer, but he'd lit out, and then I went back to the front of the
store, where I seen Colonel Harbison coming across the Square. I told
him what I'd seen and he went inside to look; while he was looking,
along come Andy Gilmore and I told him, too, and he went in. They knowed
the murderer wasn't there, that I'd been in ahead of them. After, that
the people seemed to come from every direction; then presently some one
started to ring the town bell and that fetched more people, until the
Square in front of the store was packed and jammed with 'em. Everybody'
wanted to hear about it first-hand from me; they wanted the _full
particulars_ from the only one who knowed 'em."

Mr. Shrimplin paused for breath. The recollection of his splendid
publicity was dazzling. He imagined the morrow with its possibility of
social triumph; he went as far as to feel that Mrs. Shrimplin now had a
certain sneaking respect for him.

"Did you see tracks in the snow?" demanded Custer.

"No, I didn't see nothing," de