Lorimer did not care to pass them. He saw them, one by one, leave their cotton at the ginhouse, and trail despondingly off to their cabins. Then he rode slowly up to his own door. A man sat on the verandah smoking. At the sight of him his heart fell fathoms deep. "Good evening." He tried to give his voice a cheerful welcoming sound, but he could not do it; and the visitor's attitude was not encouraging. "Good evening, Lorimer. I'm right sorry to tell you that you will be wanted on some unpleasant business very early to-morrow morning." He tried to answer, but utterly failed; his tongue was as dumb as his soul was heavy. He only drew a chair forward and sat down. "Fact is your son is in a tighter place than any man would care for. I brought him up to Sheriff Gillelands' this afternoon. Perhaps he can make it out a case of 'justifiable homicide'--hope he can. He's about as likely a young man as I ever saw." Still no answer. "Well, Lorimer, I think you're right. Talking won't help things, and may make them a sight worse. You'll be over to Judge Lepperts' in the morning?--say about ten o'clock." "Yes. Will you have some supper?" "No; this is not hungry work. My pipe is more satisfactory under the circumstances. I'll have to saddle up, too. There's others to see yet. Is there any one particular you'd like on the jury?" "No. You must do your duty, Sheriff." He heard him gallop away, and stood still, clasping and unclasping his hands in a maze of anguish. David at Sheriff Gillelands'! David to be tried for murder in the morning! What could he do? If David had not confessed to the shooting of Whaley, would he be compelled to give his evidence? Surely, conscience would not require so hard a duty of him. At length he determined to go and see David before he decided upon the course he ought to take. The sheriff's was only about three miles distant. He rode over there at once. His son, with travel-stained clothes and blood-shot hopeless eyes, looked up to see him enter. His heart was full of a great love, but it was wronged, even at that hour, by an irritation that would first and foremost assert itself. Instead of saying, "My dear, dear lad!" the lament which was in his heart, he said, "So this is the end of it, David?" "Yes. It is the end." "You ought not to have run away." "No. I ought to have let you surrender me to justice; that would have put you all right." "I wasna thinking o' that. A man flying from justice is condemned by the act." "It would have made no matter. There is only one verdict and one end possible." "Have you then confessed the murder?" He awaited the answer in an agony. It came with a terrible distinctness. "Whaley lived thirty hours. He told. His brother-in-law has gone on with the cattle. Four of the drivers are come back as witnesses. They are in the house." "But you have not yourself confessed?"