The old man stood looking after him until he mounted the knoll beyond, and passed over the top out of sight. Then he returned to the spot where he had dropped the revolver, and sat down, his forehead bowed upon his knees, and wept.
There came the sound of a horse slowly ridden through the grass, its quickening pace, its sudden stopping close behind his back. Uncle Boley resented this trespass upon his grief, for he was far from any traversed road, out on the unfenced, unmown prairie lands. He did not lift his head.
Somebody came running to his side; he could hear the short breath of excitement.
"Why, Uncle Boley! What's the matter—are you hurt?"
"Yes, Sallie, I'm hurt; I'm hurt bad!"
She was on her knees beside him, stroking his hand, looking into his face with fright in her sorrowful brown eyes, anxiety in her sympathetic voice.
"Who did it?" she whispered, the sight of the revolver, which she knew too well, bringing a rush of horrible, strangling suspicion.
"You done it!" said Uncle Boley, bitterly. He disengaged her hand, pushed her away, got to his feet.
"I did it? Why, Uncle Boley, I wouldn't—"
"I was a friend to you, and I stood by you—here,
