All this took place in so short a space of time that Bob had not moved five feet from the moment he guessed Pollock’s intention to the end of the tragedy.  As the first shot rang out, Bob turned and seized again the hair rope attached to Pollock’s horse.  His habit of rapid decision and cool judgment showed him in a flash that he was too late to interfere, and revealed to him what he must do.

Pollock, looking neither to the right nor the left, took the rope Bob handed him and swung into the saddle.  His calm had fallen from him.  His eyes burned and his face worked.  With a muffled cry of pain he struck spurs to his horse and disappeared.

Considerably shaken, Bob stood still, considering what he must do.  It was manifestly his duty to raise the alarm.  If he did so, however, he would have to bear witness to what he knew; and this, for George Pollock’s sake, he desired to avoid.  He was the only one who could know positively and directly and immediately how Plant had died.  The sound of the shots had not aroused the village.  If they had been heard, no one would have paid any attention to them; the discharge of firearms was too common an occurrence to attract special notice.  It was better to let the discovery come in the natural course of events.

However, Bob was neither a coward nor a fool.  He wanted to save George Pollock if he could, but he had no intention of abandoning another plain duty in the matter.  Without the slightest hesitation he opened Plant’s gate and walked to the verandah where the huge, unlovely hulk huddled in the doorway.  There, with some loathing, he determined the fact that the man was indeed dead.  Convinced as to this point, he returned to the street, and looked carefully up and down it.  It was still quite deserted.

His mind in a whirl of horror, pity, and an unconfessed, hidden satisfaction, he returned to Auntie Belle’s.  The customary daylight breakfast for the teamsters had been omitted on account of the Sabbath.  A thin curl of smoke was just beginning to rise straight up from the kitchen stovepipe.  Bob, his mouth suddenly dry and sticky, went around to the back porch, where a huge olla hung always full of spring water.  He rounded the corner to run plump against Oldham, tilted back in a chair smoking the butt of a cigar.

In his agitation of mind, Bob had no stomach for casual conversation.  By an effort he smoothed out his manner and collected his thoughts.

“How are you, Mr. Oldham?” he greeted the older man; “when did you get in?”

“About an hour ago,” replied Oldham.  His spare figure in the gray business suit did not stir from its lazy posture, nor did the expression of his thin sardonic face change, but somehow, after swallowing his drink, Bob decided to revise his first intention of escaping to his room.

“An hour ago,” he repeated, when the import of the words finally filtered through his mental turmoil.  “You travelled up at night then?”