All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way, and he came back to it again and again.  His thoughts shifted and formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope.

Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the mantel.  It represented the death-bed of Washington.  The dying figure on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs.  In an instant all the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it.

The judge must be his first consideration.  He had been shot down without cause, and might pay his life for it.  There was but one thing to do:  to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the consequences.

Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he hurried down-stairs.

On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark.  Her hands were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body.

In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her.  “He isn’t dead?” he whispered fearfully.

Mrs. Hollis shook her head.  “He hasn’t moved an inch or spoken since we put him on the bed.  Are you going with the men?”

“I’m going to town now,” said Sandy, evasively.

She rose and caught him by the arm.  Her eyes were fierce with vindictiveness.

“Don’t let them stop till they’ve caught him, Sandy.  I hope they will hang him to-night!”

A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate.

He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees, started for town.  The intense emotional strain under which he had labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play tricks with his nerves.  Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he heard voices in the wood.  The third time he stopped and got out.  At infrequent intervals a groan broke the stillness.

He climbed the snake-fence and beat about among the bushes.  The groan came again, and he followed the sound.

At the foot of a tall beech-tree a body was lying face downward.  He held his lantern above his head and bent over it.  It was a man, and, as he tried to turn him over, he saw a slight red stain on the snow beneath his mouth.  The figure, thus roused, stirred and tried to sit up.  As he did so, the light from Sandy’s lantern fell full on the dazed and swollen face of Carter Nelson.  The two faced each other for a space, then Sandy asked him sharply what he did there.

“I don’t know,” said Carter, weakly, sinking back against the tree.  “I’m sick.  Get me some whisky.”

“Wake up!” said Sandy, shaking him roughly.  “This is Kilday—­Sandy Kilday.”

Carter’s eyes were still closed, but his lip curled contemptuously. “Mr. Kilday,” he said, and smiled scornfully.  “The least said about Mr. Kilday the better.”

Sandy laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.