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“You made a great shot. Got him right between the eyes. We got them all laid out on the grass—come out and see them.”

But John did not want to see these dead men! He was a murderer. He had killed a man, perhaps an innocent stranger who had never done him wrong. It was frightful, but even the women insisted that he come, so with his eyes shut John permitted himself to be drawn out to the hateful spot where those dead bodies were lying.

“There’s the one you got!” roared a voice in his ear.

“You must be a dead shot—look at him; see how white he is!”

And Harlow opened his eyes, expecting to see a picture which could never be erased from memory. There were the dead bodies on the grass before him in the lantern light. There were three big skunks with more than the usual amount of white about their faces and backs!

Harlow gazed at them, and his paralyzed mind slowly came back to normal working order. And then the light came. He had not taken part in any family feud. No one had tried to kill him. The people of that section were as kindly neighbors as any he had ever had in Boston. For some weeks the skunks had been stealing chickens, and the family had organized this successful defense. It was not the white face of a man that John had seen in the tangled grass, but the white head and back of a skunk. He was not a murderer—he was only a skunk-killer!