“Never seed ony pusson so sot on posies as you ’uns be,” he observed conversationally. “Yes, I am very fond of flowers. They make the house more home-like, I think. The prairie is very bare looking,” replied Olive politely. “Yer ole man oughter rared his house t’other side the Gully, an’ further down yon’er. This hyar ’ull be powerful col’ when we git col’ snaps in Jan’ary. Yer dunno nothin’ ’bout things in this hyar all-fired ’Fection City,” said Mr. Owen, looking around him in criticism. “Perhaps not,” said Olive, rather nettled, “but we know how to mind our own business.” Mr. Owen did not feel one whit abashed. He was far too near akin to the pachyderms for Olive’s delicate little shafts to have any effect on him. Another long silence followed, and Olive began to wonder if Owen was like that man from Jacksonville, who came to see them once and stayed four hours, during which time he made only two remarks and they possessed no particular interest. The man and his stony silence had driven her nearly wild, until she reflected how much more awful it would have been had she been obliged to entertain him with conversation. A recollection of this visitation and a dread born of that recollection began to invade her mind. Mr. Owen, however, was not going to stay for four hours, and he was going to make a remark of very particular interest, a remark that would quickly scatter all Olive’s other ideas. He delivered it slowly and with the monotonous enunciation which proclaimed him a Missouri man. “The boys is hout huntin’ down ole man Cotterell.” “What!” exclaimed Olive turning very white. Then, steadying her voice as well as she could she said, “Why are they hunting him?” “To cotch him,” replied her visitor concisely. “But what for?” asked Olive, looking at him with wide eyes of horror. She knew only too well what hunting down a man portended. “Wal, there’s bin a shootin’ over to his house, an’ one o’ thim boys o’ Mills is shot, shot dead. Cotterell done it. And now he’s gone an’ run off. The boys they ’lowed Cotterell best be hung this time. Las’ time he was let off. He won’t be agin, you bet.” “How do you know he has shot young Mills? What evidence have you of it?” asked Olive in terror, yet she could not help pressing the man to tell her, although each word was like a stab. He gave a silent inward laugh as if his thoughts were facetious. “Evidence an’ enough,” he said. “Jake Mills’ body with a bullet through his heart. Yer can’t git nothin’ plainer in the way of evidence than that, I reckon.” “But how do you know it was Mr. Cotterell shot him?” asked Olive. “Damn my eyes! but yer mus’ be a nateral born fool, Mis’ Weston. Jake Mills were foun’ on Cotterell’s lan’. Who else could ha’ done it? Besides, he did, an’ that’s a fac’ anyhow.”