“Good God! Mrs. Weston, no. I’ve not murdered him, although he is dead by my hand. There’s been a quarrel between us about some land he rented from me. He was a very low-bred fellow and violent, and I despised him, and—well, I said some harsh things to him about cheating the last time we met. He swore that he would pay me out. He came to my cabin the other day. I don’t know how long ago, it seems a life-time. He was mad with drink and fury. I told him he was a hound. He whipped out his revolver and fired at me, but he was too tipsy to aim straight, his shots went wide of the mark. Well, I got my shot in, I was not drunk. That is how it was, Mrs. Weston. Upon my honour as a man, that is the exact truth, you would not call it murder, would you?” “No, it was in self-defence. But why didn’t you go and tell the neighbours at once? They understand that sort of thing on the prairie.” “Ah, there’s just my hard luck. There was a brute of a negro who saw it all, a fellow I thrashed once for stealing and lying, and he said with such a meaning look, niggers were free men now, they could give evidence against white men now,” said Cotterell in a voice of despair. “Could not you silence him?” said Olive, “or make him tell the truth?” “Yes, I could have silenced him easily enough, and I had my finger on the trigger to do it. But I sickened at the thought. I couldn’t shoot him, although it was my life against his in all probability. I fled and he gave the alarm. I have no chance with these men around here to try me, and that negro to give his lying version of the fight. If it was a jury of men like your husband, it would be different, but these ignorant settlers are desperately prejudiced against me already as a foreigner, and because of several things in the past.” Olive thought of what her husband had said, and knew only too well that there was indeed much prejudice against the unhappy fugitive. “What am I to do? You cannot stay here, Mr. Cotterell. They have already been looking for you. Mr. Owen was here yesterday afternoon.” “Did he tell you what I had done? Did he seem to consider it murder?” “Yes, he did,” said Olive in a whisper, not daring to remember what he had said should he Cotterell’s punishment. “But you don’t look upon it in that light?” said he, wistfully. “No, certainly not. It was a terrible misfortune that might happen to anybody, given the preliminary quarrel.” “Thank you,” said Cotterell brokenly. “When a poor devil is being hunted down it is a comfort for him to find someone who can still believe in him, and I knew in my heart I could come to you for help when all else had abandoned me. I am starving, Mrs. Weston. I have eaten nothing for two days. Can you give me some food?” “Poor fellow!” cried Olive, more struck perhaps by his bodily needs than by those of the mind. “Sit down here, I’ll get you something in a jiffy. There is a good chicken-pie in the cellar.”