“That’s what I mean; I didn’t just have ’em, but mighty near it. I would have, if I hadn’t stopped. And the stoppin’ was almost worse than goin’ on. You know how ’tis; you’ve seen lots o’ the boys that way. Well, them’s me; and I was nighabout crazy, I reckon. But I’d cut the stuff out, and meant to stay by that resolution. “So I ambles down here a while ago feelin’ about as good-humored with myself and the world as a she-wolf that’s lost her cubs. And because I was nervous, and didn’t know what to do with myself, I began to shoot at a target. It was a card that I had stuck up on that mesquite; if you’ll look at the mesquite you’ll see where some o’ my lead plunked into it while I was shooting. I wasn’t shooting at anybody, nor dreaming o’ harmin’ anybody. “Then these wild men jumped out at me, slingin’ their crazy lingo; and I’ve just waked up to the discovery that some o’ my lead must have went astray. They say I hit a woman. It’s the first time for me, Woods, and I’m sorry if it’s so. I didn’t know it, and didn’t mean it.” Ben Woods looked at him intently. “That sounds straight, anyway,” he said. “It’s the truth, and the whole truth!” asserted Conover. “What would I want to be shootin’ a Mexican woman for, anyhow? Ask these chaps if the woman wasn’t in her house? I never seen her, and she must have been.” The marshal turned to the Mexicans. “Was the woman in her house?” he demanded fiercely. They pressed forward and began to make excited statements; yet out of what they said he managed to extract the confession that this was so. “There wasn’t any crazy shootin’ up of this part of the town, then?” he said. “It was reported there was.” The Mexicans clamored about him, declaring that the woman was dying, and demanding the immediate punishment of the man who had shot her. “But if he didn’t shoot at her, and hadn’t any intention of hittin’ her?” said the marshal, trying to lull the storm. They still clamored. Woods turned from them to the man who was now his prisoner. “This thing will have to be looked into, anyhow, Conover,” he said regretfully. “If the woman dies it may make trouble for you. But we’ll hope she’ll git well. Anyway, I don’t see but I’ll have to take you to jail until the thing can be looked into.” His tone was almost an apology, and Conover understood it as such. The deep flush, accentuating the liquor-red of his face, noticed once before that morning, came again; his blue eyes contracted and narrowed; for a moment he looked defiant, his hand dropping toward the revolver pocket hidden by the corduroy coat. He forgot for the instant that he had surrendered the weapon. Then his mood changed, and he laughed, a harsh sound that had no merriment in it. “Oh, all right, Woods!” he said. “Just as you say. I wouldn’t shoot a woman—not even a Mexican one; I ain’t that kind, and you know it. I’ll go with you.”