Madison Clay had stared amazed and bewildered—­horror-stricken.  The incidents of the past night for the first time flashed upon him clearly—­hopelessly!  The shot; his finding Salomy Jane alone in the woods; her confusion and anxiety to rid herself of him; the disappearance of the shotgun; and now this new discovery of the taking of his hat and coat for a disguise! She had killed Phil Larrabee in that disguise, after provoking his first harmless shot!  She, his own child, Salomy Jane, had disgraced herself by a man’s crime; had disgraced him by usurping his right, and taking a mean advantage, by deceit, of a foe!

“Gimme that gun,” he said hoarsely.

Breckenridge handed him the gun in wonder and slowly gathering suspicion.  Madison examined nipple and muzzle; one barrel had been discharged.  It was true!  The gun dropped from his hand.

“Look here, old man,” said Breckenridge, with a darkening face, “there’s bin no foul play here.  Thar’s bin no hiring of men, no deputy to do this job. You did it fair and square—­yourself?”

“Yes, by God!” burst out Madison Clay in a hoarse voice.  “Who says I didn’t?”

Reassured, yet believing that Madison Clay had nerved himself for the act by an over-draught of whiskey, which had affected his memory, Breckenridge said curtly, “Then wake up and ‘lite’ out, ef ye want me to stand by you.”

“Go to the corral and pick me out a hoss,” said Madison slowly, yet not without a certain dignity of manner.  “I’ve suthin’ to say to Salomy Jane afore I go.”  He was holding her scribbled note, which he had just discovered, in his shaking hand.

Struck by his kinsman’s manner, and knowing the dependent relations of father and daughter, Breckenridge nodded and hurried away.  Left to himself, Madison Clay ran his fingers through his hair, and straightened out the paper on which Salomy Jane had scrawled her note, turned it over, and wrote on the back:—­

You might have told me you did it, and not leave your ole father to find it out how you disgraced yourself and him, too, by a low-down, underhanded, woman’s trick!  I’ve said I done it, and took the blame myself, and all the sneakiness of it that folks suspect.  If I get away alive—­and I don’t care much which—­you needn’t foller.  The house and stock are yours; but you ain’t any longer the daughter of your disgraced father,

    MADISON CLAY.

He had scarcely finished the note when, with a clatter of hoofs and a led horse, Breckenridge reappeared at the door elate and triumphant.  “You’re in nigger luck, Mad!  I found that stole hoss of Judge Boompointer’s had got away and strayed among your stock in the corral.  Take him and you’re safe; he can’t be outrun this side of the state line.”

“I ain’t no hoss-thief,” said Madison grimly.

“Nobody sez ye are, but you’d be wuss—­a fool—­ef you didn’t take him.  I’m testimony that you found him among your hosses; I’ll tell Judge Boompointer you’ve got him, and ye kin send him back when you’re safe.  The judge will be mighty glad to get him back, and call it quits.  So ef you’ve writ to Salomy Jane, come.”