cally the same star that
City Marshal Tarbush had worn, Cowles having for the time taken on the
deceased man's duties also. The sight enraged him. He brandished his
club.

"There he is!" he cried. "I hit him once--I killed him--I'm going to
kill him again! You can't pick on me. I'm out. I'll kill you again!"

"My God! _what's he saying, Dan_?" quavered the voice of the unhappy
man, the father of this wild creature. "What's he _saying_?"

"Johnnie!" he himself called out aloud. "Johnnie, tell me--tell me who
it was, and I'll take you to see the pictures right away."

"Him!" shrieked Johnnie. "Him--there's that shiny thing."

"When was it, Johnnie--what do you mean about this man?" The sheriff now
spoke to him.

"I hit you--that night--I'll hit you again now! Nobody going to pick on
Johnnie. Best man in Jackson County--eejit!"

"You're going to take me away to jail again," said he cunningly. "But
you can't. I was just going to talk to her before, and you come and took
me away. But I hit him. Now I'll kill you so you'll stay dead."

Slowly, cautiously creeping down the steps, club in hand, he followed
the two men, who backed away from him--backed out through the gate on to
the sidewalk, into the street.

From across the street Nels Jorgens in his wagon shop saw what was going
on, and came running, a stout wagon spoke caught up in his own hand. He
passed this to Ephraim Adamson.

"Look out, Sheriff!" he called out. "He's wild. He'll kill somebody
yet."

Nels Jorgens and one or two others saw what then happened. The madman,
now murderously excited, stopped in his deliberate advance. His eyes
flamed green with hatred at all this before him. The lust of blood
showed on his features, usually so mild. He saw his father standing now,
this weapon in his hand; and forgetting every tie in the world, if ever
he had felt one, sprang at him with a scream of rage. Ephraim Adamson
stepped back, tripped, fell. He saw above him the face of his son, with
murder in his eyes. He closed his own eyes.

And then Nels Jorgens and one or two others who came hurrying up saw a
puff of smoke, heard the roar of a shot Dan Cowles had fired just in
time....

There was no need to send poor Johnnie Adamson to the asylum. He had
gone now to a farther country. He sank, a vast bulk, at his full length
along the narrow strip of dusty grass between the curb and the walk. His
shoulders heaved once or twice, his arms fell lax.

Dan Cowles, sole