had every other devilment that comes even to a square gambling house in a wide open town—fights, suicide, and—murder."
He broke off, meeting Trant's quick and questioning glance for a fraction of an instant with a steely glitter of his gray-green eyes.
"Sure—murder!" he repeated with rougher defiance. "Men shot themselves and, a good deal oftener, shot each other in our house or somewhere else, on account of what went on there. But we got things passed up a deal easier in those days, and we seldom bothered ourselves about a little shooting till—well, the habit spread to us. I mean, one night one of us—Len Findlay it was—was shot under conditions that made it certain that one of us other five—Tyler, or Chapin, or Enoch Findlay, his brother, or Neal, or I, must have shot him. You see, a pleasant thing to drop into our happy family! Made it certain only to us, of course; we got it passed up as a suicide with the police. And that wasn't all; for as soon afterward as it was safe to have another 'suicide,' old Jim Tyler was shot; and this time we knew it was either Enoch Findlay or—I told you I wouldn't mince matters—or Neal. That broke up the game and the partnership—"
"Wait, wait!" Trant interrupted. "Do you mean me to understand that your brother shot Tyler?"
"I mean you to understand just what I said," the old man's straight lips closed tightly under his short white mustache; "for I've seen too much trouble come out of just words to be careless with them. Either Enoch or Neal shot Jim; I don't know which."
