"Business."
"What business?"
"I don't talk business afore wimmenfolks."
Mintie's face was white enough now, and her lips were quivering.
"Come you here, child," said her father.
He looked at her steadily.
"You go to bed an' stay there. Not a word! An' don't worry."
Mintie hesitated, opened her mouth and closed it. Then she walked
quietly out of the room.
"What brings you here?" repeated Ransom.
"Murder."
"Murder? Whose murder?"
"This afternoon," replied the 'Piker,' "Jake Farge was shot dead on
your land, not a quarter of a mile from this yere house. His widder
found him and come to me."
"Wal?"
"She says the shot that killed him must ha' bin fired 'bout six. She
heard it, an' happened to look at the clock."
"Wal?"
"She swears that you fired it."