He was vaguely conscious that his father was not seizing the present opportunity to distinguish himself with any noticeable avidity.  He had expected to see that conqueror of bad men and cow-towns, the somewhat ruthless but always manful slayer of one-eye Murphy, descend from his cart with astonishing alacrity, and heedless in his tried courage stride down into the darkness beyond the slaughter-house.  But Mr. Shrimplin did nothing of the sort, he made no move to quit his seat.  Surely something had gone very wrong with the William Shrimplin of Custer’s fancy, the young Bill Shrimplin of Texarcana and similar centers of crime and hardihood.

“Custer—­” began Mr. Shrimplin, in a shaking voice.  “I am wondering if it wouldn’t be best to drive on into town and get a cop—­Oh, my God, why don’t you quit hollering!”

“Maybe they’re killing him now!” cried Custer breathlessly.

He could not yet comprehend his father’s attitude in the matter, he could only realize that for some wholly inexplicable reason he was falling far short of his ideal of him; he seemed utterly to have lost his eye for the spectacular possibilities of the moment.  Why share the credit with a cop, why ask help of any one!

“You don’t need no help, pa!” he said.

“Well, I don’t know as I do,” replied the little man, but he made no move to leave his cart, his fears glued him to the seat.

“Come on, then!” insisted Custer impatiently.

“Don’t you feel afraid, son?” inquired Mr. Shrimplin, with marked solicitude.

“Not with you!”

“Well, I don’t know as you need to!” admitted Shrimplin.  “But I don’t feel quite right—­I reckon I feel sort of sick, Custer—­sort of—­”

“Oh, come on—­hurry up!”

“I don’t know but I ought to see a doctor first—­” faltered Mr. Shrimplin in a hollow tone.

Misery of soul twisted his weak face pathetically.

“Why you act like you was afraid!” said Custer, with withering contempt.

His words cut the elder Shrimplin like a knife; but they did not move him from his seat in the cart.

“You bet I ain’t afraid, Custer,—­and that’s no way for you to speak to your pa, anyhow!”

But what he had intended should be the note of authority was no more than a whine of injury.

“Then why don’t you come if you ain’t afraid?” insisted the boy angrily.

“I don’t know as I rightly know why I don’t!” faltered Mr. Shrimplin.  “I feel rotten bad all at once.”

“You’re a coward!” cried the boy in fierce scorn.

Sobs choked his further utterance while the hot tears blinded him on the instant.  His idol had turned to clay in his very presence, and in the desolation of that moment he wished that he might be stricken with death, since life held nothing for him longer.

“Custer—­” began Shrimplin.

“Why don’t you be a man and go down there?” sobbed the boy.