No, he told himself, the right to protect his mother was _his_--it was even more, as he saw it, it was his first duty. And yet if he kept his own counsel, he asked himself, his legal mind now active, what were the chances of escape from accusation? Noticing the target still pinned to the trunk of the tree with the dead man's pocket-knife, the shots showing on the bark and paper, and the sprawling attitude of the corpse with the wound over the region of the heart, he asked himself, with faintly rising hope, what more natural than to assume that death had resulted from accident? What more reasonable than the theory that on his frightened horse Dan Willis had accidentally directed his shot upon his own body? What better evidence that he was not at himself than the almost empty flask in his shirt? Yes, Carson Dwight decided, it was his duty to wait at least to see further before taking a step which would result in even deeper tragedy. Besides, he knew he was morally guiltless. His conscience was clear; there was consolation in that at all events. But now what must he do? To go on to Springtown by that road was out of the question, for only a mile or so farther on was a store and a few farm-houses, and it would be known there that he had passed the fatal spot. So, remounting, he rode slowly back towards Darley, now earnestly, and even craftily, hoping that he would meet no one. He was successful, for he reached the main road, which was longer, not so well graded, and a more sparsely settled thoroughfare to his destination. He had lost time, and he now put his horse into a brisk canter and sped onward with a queer blending of emotions. The thought of possibly saving his mother from a terrible shock buoyed him up while the grewsome happening put a weight upon him he had never borne before. CHAPTER XXXIX [Illustration: 9350] T was after dark when he finally reached Springtown and rode through the quiet little street to the only hotel in the village kept by a certain Tom Wyman, whom Dwight knew. Dismounting, he turned his tired horse over to a negro porter and went into the room which was used at once as parlor and office. A dog-eared account-book lay open on a table, and here, at the request of the cordial Wyman, a short, portly man with sandy hair and mustache, Carson registered his name.