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scrub in his stockings.
By this precaution he had been able to reach the house without being heard, to note his enemies as they sat at play, to cover them with his shotted gun, and dash the charge into their sides.
The man had evidently retired in the belief that they were killed.
Every man in Carterville knew the murderer, but no one cared to raise the hue and cry. They said it was an old feud; a family quarrel, like the strife of Guelph and Ghibelline, of Ute and Snake.
Last time, the victim was a Bulliner; this time he is a Sisney.
If the two families like to have a feud of blood, what right has any one to interfere?
What day is this, the villagers ask?
Twelfth day of December!
Was not Bulliner shot this very day last year?
Has any of the Sisney party suffered for that crime?
It is but turn about.
So reason all the tribe of Sheriff Frank.
A murder was committed in the previous year.
Who doubts that some of the Bulliner family had marked this day for Sisney's death?
On searching out the facts, I find a story of vendetta in the Prairie lands, which for vindictive passion equals the most brutal quarrels in Ajaccio and the Monte d'oro; almost rivals in
1875.
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