If somebody would only come that way! And he listened desperately for the sound of wheels on the road, but all he heard was that oft-repeated call for help that came wailing from the black shadows beyond the slaughter-house.

Suddenly Custer answered the call with a reassuring cry.
"Perhaps it's another murder!" he said.
"Oh, my God!" gasped Shrimplin, and there flashed through his mind the horror of that other night.
Custer slipped out of the cart.
"Come on!" he cried.
He was vaguely conscious that his father was not seizing the present opportunity to distinguish himself with any noticeable avidity.

He had expected to see that conqueror of bad men and cow-towns, the somewhat ruthless but always manful slayer of one-eye Murphy, descend from his cart with astonishing alacrity, and heedless in his tried courage stride down into the darkness beyond the slaughter-house.

But Mr.Shrimplin did nothing of the sort, he made no move to quit his seat.

Surely something had gone very wrong with the William Shrimplin of Custer's fancy, the young Bill Shrimplin of Texarcana and similar centers of crime and hardihood.
"Custer--" began Mr.Shrimplin, in a shaking voice.