A double-barreled, muzzle-loading shotgun rested upon two wooden pegs which protruded front the neatly whitewashed plaster of the kitchen wall. Both barrels were loaded with ample charges of buckshot, and two percussion caps gleamed with sinister brightness under the ornate hammers. Dark and menacing, the shotgun lay blackly along that immaculate wall, and by its presence prevented Doris Wilkins from getting married. With that fearsome weapon, capable at close range of blowing a hole through the side of a house, Orla Wilkins guarded his sister from all young men who approached with serious intentions. Wilkins was large and smiling, one of those doughy men who lump out their clothes in the w…
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