He spoke his next words very slowly, with little pauses.

“But I found out what his name was—­it was—­”

He stopped, for there had been an indistinct sound from where her father sat, now in the gloom of the evening.  She called to him: 

“Did you speak, father?”

There was no reply or movement from the figure in the chair, and Follett resumed: 

“I guess he was just asleep and dreaming about something.  Well, anyway—­I—­I found out afterwards by telling it before him, that Mr. Barney Carter and his drunken friend had given me his name right, though I could hardly believe it before.”

“What an awful, awful thing!  What wickedness there is in the world!”

“Oh, a tolerable lot,” he assented.

He had been all animation and eagerness in the telling of the story, but had now become curiously silent and listless; so that, although she was eager with many questions about what he had said, she did not ask them, waiting to see if he would not talk again.  But instead of talking, he stayed silent and presently began to fidget in his chair.  At last he said, “If you’ll excuse us, Miss Prudence, your pa and I have got a little business matter to talk over—­to-night.  I guess we can go down here by the corral and do it.”

But she arose quickly and bade him good night.  “I hope I shall see you to-morrow,” she said.

She bent over to kiss her father as she went in, and when she had done so, warned him that he must not sit in the night air.

“Why your face is actually wet with a cold sweat.  You ought to come in at once.”

“After a very little, dear.  Go to bed now—­and always be a good girl!”

“And you’ve grown so hoarse sitting here.”

“In a little while,—­always be a good girl!”

She went in with a parting admonition:  “Remember your cough—­good night!”

When she had gone neither man stirred for the space of a minute.  The little man, huddled in his seat, had not changed his position; he still sat with his chair tilted back against the house, his chin on his breast.

The other had remained standing where the girl left him, the revolver in his hand.  After the minute of silence he crossed over and stood in front of the seated man.

“Come,” he said, gruffly, “where do you want to go?”

CHAPTER XXXIV.

How the Avenger Bungled His Vengeance

At last he stood up, slowly, unsteadily, grasping Follett by the arm for support.  He spoke almost in a whisper.

“Come back here first—­to talk—­then I’ll go with you.”

He entered the house, the young man following close, suspicious, narrowly watchful.

“No fooling now,—­feel the end of that gun in your back?” The other made no reply.  Inside the door he took a candle from the box against the wall and lighted it.