FullReads

Cartwright gave a slight start and bit his lip. Evidently the prisoner had misunderstood him. The silence continued.

“I don’t mean here, Mr. Tilden;” and he pointed to the bag. “I mean the night of the so-called robbery.”

“That’s what I said; ’bout as close’s I could git.”

“Well, did you rob the mail?” This was asked uneasily, but with a half-concealed laugh in his voice as if the joke would appear in a minute.

“No.”

“No, of course not.” The tone of relief was apparent.

“Well, do you know anything about the cutting of the bag?”

“Yes.”

“Who did it?”

“Me.”

“You?”The surprise was now an angry one.

“Yes, me.”

At this unexpected reply the Judge pushed his glasses high up on his forehead with a quick motion and leaned over his bench, his eyes on the prisoner. The jury looked at each other with amazement; such scenes were rare in their experience. The prosecuting attorney smiled grimly. Cartwright looked as if someone had struck him a sudden blow in the face.

“What for?” he stammered. It was evidently the only question left for him to ask. All his self-control was gone now, his face livid, an angry look in his eyes. That any man with State’s prison yawning before him could make such a fool of himself seemed to astound him.

Bud turned slowly and, pointing his finger at Halliday, said between his closed teeth:

“Ask Hank Halliday; he knows.”

The buzzard sprang to his feet. There was the scent of carrion in the air now; I saw it in his eyes.

“We don’t want to ask Mr. Halliday; we want to ask you. Mr. Halliday is not on trial, and we want the truth if you can tell it.”

The irregularity of the proceeding was unnoticed in the tense excitement.

Bud looked at him as a big mastiff looks at a snarling cur with a look more of pity than contempt. Then he said slowly, accentuating each word:

“Keep yer shirt on. You’ll git the truth–git the whole of it. Git what you ain’t lookin’ for. There ain’t no liars up in our mountains ‘cept them skunks in Gov’ment pay you fellers send up to us, and things like Hank Halliday. He’s wuss nor any skunk. A skunk’s a varmint that don’t stink tell ye meddle with him, but Hank Halliday stinks all the time. He’s one o’ them fellers that goes ’round with books in their pockets with picters in ’em that no girl oughter see and no white man oughter read. He gits ’em down to Louisville. There ain’t a man in Pondville won’t tell ye it’s true. He shoved one in my outside pocket over to Pondville when I warn’t lookin’, the day ‘fore I held up this man Bowditch, and went and told the fellers ’round the tavern that I had it. They come and pulled it out and had the laugh on me, and then he began to talk and said he’d write to Jennetta and send her one o’ the picters by mail and tell her he’d got it out o’ my coat, and he did. Sam Kellers seen Halliday with the letter and told me after Bowditch had got it in his bag. I laid for Bowditch at Pondville Corners, but he got past somehow, and I struck in behind Bill Somers’s mill, and crossed the mountain and caught up with him as he was ridin’ through the piece o’ woods near the clearin’. I didn’t know but he’d try to shoot, and I didn’t want to hurt him, so I crep’ up behind and threw him in the bushes, cut a hole in the bag, and got the letter. That’s the only one I wanted and that’s the only one I took. I didn’t rob no mail, but I warn’t goin’ to hev an honest, decent girl like Jennetta git that letter, and there warn’t no other way.”

The stillness that followed was broken only by the Judge’s voice.