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 weighty shoulder. The members of the posse heard one shot fired inside, and then there was silence.

At length the wounded man opened his eyes. After a blank space he again could see and hear and feel and think. Turning his eyes about, he found himself lying on a wooden bench. A tall man with a perplexed countenance, wearing a big badge with “City Marshal” engraved upon it, stood over him. A little old woman in black, with a wrinkled face and sparkling black eyes, was holding a wet handkerchief against one of his temples. He was trying to get these facts fixed in his mind and connected with past events, when the old woman began to talk.

“There now, great, big, strong man! That bullet never tetched ye! Jest skeeted along the side of your head and sort of paralysed ye for a spell. I’ve heerd of sech things afore; cun-cussion is what they names it. Abel Wadkins used to kill squirrels that way—barkin’ ’em, Abe called it. You jest been barked, sir, and you’ll be all right in a little bit. Feel lots better already, don’t ye! You just lay still a while longer and let me bathe your head. You don’t know me, I reckon, and ’tain’t surprisin’ that you shouldn’t. I come in on that train from Alabama to see my son. Big son, ain’t he? Lands! you wouldn’t hardly think he’d ever been a baby, would ye? This is my son, sir.”

Half turning, the old woman looked up at the